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PALMS   OF   PAPYRUS 

Being  Forthright  Studies  of  Men 
and  Books ;  'With  Some  Pages 
From  a  Man's  Inner  Life 


By  MICHAEL  ^lONAHAN 

Author  of  Benigna  Vena,  etc.. 


East  Orange,  N.  J. 

THE  PAPYRUS  PUBLISHING  CO. 
1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by  Michael  Monahan 


Of  this  edition  Seven  Hundred  copies  were  printed  and  the 
type  distributed. 


This  is  No. 


To  FINLEY  PETER  DUNNE 


The  only  art  I  boast  is  this — 

/  too  have  laughed  with  all  the  crowd, 
When  the  rich  wonder  of  your  wit 

Challenged  their  plaudits  loud; 

cAnd  then,  the  jester's  role  aside , 
cA  finer  spirit  have  I  known, 

cA  man  'with  sorrow,  too,  acquaint, 
cA  hrother—yes,  mine  ofon. 

cA  look  into  the  merry  eyes— 

Lo  !  here  are  tears  unshed 
That  do  but  ask  a  kindred  soul, 

To  leave  their  fountain  head. 

For  you  have  more  than  Falstaff's  mirth, 
Nor  less  than  Hamlet's  teen; 

"Wilt  weep  for  Hecuba"— and  then 
With  laughter  shake  the  scene. 

One  of  God's  players  playing  out 

With  zest  a  weary  part; 
Teaching  the  sad  world  ho*fa>  to  smile 

C5y  strokes  of  genial  art; 

Launching  the  scorn  that  blasts  the  knaoe, 
The  jest  that  flays  the  fool, 

cAnd  by  the  right  dfbine  of  wit 
Gibing  a  nation  rule. 


Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  dear  Wit  and  Sage, 
The  roaring  crowds  above  : 

Yet  keep  for  your  o*h?n  chosen  fe*h> 
The  <Poet  of  their  love. 


&(ew  York,  1908. 


Che  Contents. 


PAGE 

The  Poe  Legend  I 

In  re  Colonel  Ingersoll  19 

Richard  Wagner's  Romance 38 

Saint  Mark .    , 47 

Oscar  Wilde's  Atonement 54 

Children  of  the  Age 60 

The  Black  Friar 66 

Lafcadio  Hearn 71 

A  Fellow  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hyde 76 

Mr.   Guppy 82 

A  Port  of  Age 87 

On  Letters 96 

The  Kings 100 

The  Song  that  is  Solomon's 107 

Dining  With  Schopenhauer no 

In  Praise  of  Life 117 

Pulvis  et  Umbra 130 

Shadows 136 

Sursum  Corda 140 

Seeing  the  Old  Town 143 

A  Hearty  God 148 

The  Better  Day 150 

A  Modern  Heresy 153 

Familiars  Philosophy 156 

Epigrams  and  Aphorisms 164 

Song  of  the  Rain 173 


Che  poe  Legend: 


Hn  dticonvcfittotial  Ycrafon. 


COMPLIMENT  which  mediocrity  often  pays 
to  genius,  is  to  indict  it. 

So  there   is   an   indictment   against   Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  with  a  bill  of  particulars,  the  effect 
of  which  is  to  make  him  out  the  chief  Horrible 
Example  of  our  literary  history. 

Most  of  his  critics  admit  that  he  was  a  genius  and  deny 
that  he  was  a  respectable  person. 

A  considerable  number  deny  his  respectability  with 
warmth  and  coldly  concede  to  him  a  certain  measure  of 
poetical  talent. 

A  few  embittered  ones  deny  that  he  was  either  respectable 
or  a  genius. 

No  one  has  ever  contended  for  him  that  he  was  both  a  gen 
ius  and  respectable.  I  do  not  make  this  claim,  as  I  should  not 
wish  to  appear  too  original;  and,  besides,  I  am  content  with 
the  fact  of  his  genius  and  care  nothing  for  the  question  of 
respectability.  Or,  yes,  I  do  care  something  for  it,  if 
by  respectability  is  meant  that  prudent  regard  for  self  which 
would  have  prevented  the  suicide  of  Poe.  I'm  sure  if  he 
were  living  to-day,  he  would  never  think  of  drinking  himself 
to  death.  His  work  would  be  better  paid,  for  one  thing, — 
supposing  that  he  could  get  past  the  magazine  editors, — and 
then  we  have  learned  a  little  how  to  drink — the  art  was  crude 
and  brutal  in  Poe's  day.  Perhaps  this  is  the  only  respect  in 
which  we,  the  children  of  a  later  generation,  are  better  ar 
tists  than  he. 

The  tradition  of  Poe's  drunkenness  hangs  on  so  persist- 


2  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

ently  that  many  people  can  think  of  him  only  in  connection 
with  that  still  popular  melodrama,  Ten-Nights-in-a-Bar- 
room.  As  a  boy  I  used  to  fancy  that  he  was  cut  out  for  the 
leading  part  in  it.  And  in  fact  I  saw  a  play  not  long  ago — 
in  the  provinces,  of  course — in  which  the  author  of  "The 
Raven"  was  shown  drunk  in  every  act  and  working  up  to  a 
brilliant  climax  of  the  "horrors."  .  .  . 

When  I  try  to  call  up  before  my  mind's  eye  the  figure 
of  Poe,  the  man  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  his  daily  walks  and 
associates,  the  picture  is  at  once  broken  up  by  an  irruption  of 
red  and  angry  faces — old  John  Allan,  Burton  the  Comedian 
(who  could  be  so  tragically  in  earnest  and  so  damned  vir 
tuous  with  a  poor  poet) ,  White,  Griswold,  Wilmer,  Graham, 
Briggs,  the  sweet  singer  of  "Ben  Bolt,"  and  others  of  the 
queer  literati  of  that  day.  Each  and  all  declare  in  staccato, 
with  positive  forefinger  raised,  "We  tell  you  the  man  was 
drunk!''  Then  Absalom  Willis  appears,  bowing  daintily, 
and  says  in  mild  deprecation,  "No,  I  would  not  precisely  say 
drunk — but  do  me  the  honor  to  read  my  article  on  the  sub 
ject  in  the  'Home  Journal.'  '  The  saintly  Longfellow, 
evoked  from  the  shades,  seems  to  say,  "Not  merely  drunk, 
but  malignant."  And  a  host  of  forgotten  poetasters  loom 
ing  dimly  in  the  background,  take  up  the  Psalmist's  words 
and  make  a  refrain  of  them — "Not  merely  drunk,  but  ma 
lignant!" 

Since  this  is  what  we  get,  in  lieu  of  biography,  by  those 
who  have  taken  the  life  of  Poe,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
obscure  dramatist  seizes  on  the  same  stuff  for  his  purpose, 
degrading  the  most  famous  of  our  poets  to  the  level  of  a 
bar-room  hero.  Whether  or  not  it  is  possible  at  this  late  day 
to  separate  the  fame  of  Poe  from  the  foul  legend  of  drunk 
enness  and  sodden  dissipation  that  has  gathered  about  it,  I 
would  not  venture  to  say ;  but  very  sure  am  I  that  no  one  has 
yet  attempted  the  feat.  Even  the  mild  and  half  apologetic 
Dr.  Woodberry  is  gravely  interested  in  the  number,  extent 


THE  POE  LEGEND  3 

and  variety  of  Poe's  drunks.  Let  me  not  forget  one  honor 
able  exception,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  who  has  taken 
his  brother  poet,  "as  he  was  and  for  what  he  was."  I  do  not, 
however,  include  Mr.  Stedman  with  the  biographers  of 
Poe — he  stands  rather  at  the  head  of  those  who  have  sought 
to  interpret  his  genius  and  to  safeguard  his  literary  legacy. 
And  though  (I  think)  he  brought  no  great  love  to  the  task — 
Poe  is  hardly  a  subject  to  inspire  love — he  has  done  it  fairly 
and  well. 

I  may  here  observe,  parenthetically,  that  in  a  very  kind 
letter  addressed  to  the  author,  Mr.  Stedman  demurs  at  the 
suggestion  that  he  brought  no  great  love  to  his  critical  labors 
on  behalf  of  Poe — labors  that  have  unquestionably  raised 
the  poet's  literary  status  in  the  view  of  many,  and  have  as 
certainly  cleared  away  a  mass  of  prejudice,  evil  report  and 
misunderstanding  attached  to  his  personal  character  and  rep 
utation.  But  all  I  mean  to  convey  is  that  Mr.  Stedman's 
splendid  work  was  done,  as  it  appears  to  me,  less  for  the  love 
of  Poe  than  the  love  of  letters.  In  saying  this  I  imply  not 
the  slightest  reproach :  Poe  is  a  man  to  be  pitied,  praised,  ad 
mired,  regretted;  or,  if  you  please,  to  be  hated,  envied, 
blamed  and  condemned.  But  love, — such  love,  say,  as 
Lamb  inspired  in  his  friends  and  still  inspires  in  his  readers, 
— is  not  for  the  lonely  singer  of  "Israfel." 

I  agree  with  Poe's  biographers  that  he  got  drunk  often, 
but  I  am  only  sorry  that  he  never  got  any  fun  out  of  it — the 
man  was  essentially  unhumorous.  I  should  be  glad  to  hold  a 
brief  for  Poe's  drunkenness,  if  his  tippling  ever  yielded  him 
any  solace;  or,  better  still,  if  it  ever  inspired  him  to  any  gen 
uine  literary  effort.  We  know  well  that  some  great  poets  have 
successfully  wooed  the  Muse  in  their  cups,  but  you  can  take 
my  word  for  it,  they  were  cold  sober  when  they  worked  the 
thing  out.  It  is  true  Emerson  says  (after  Milton)  that  the 
poet  who  is  to  see  visions  of  the  gods  should  drink  only 
water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl.  But  Emerson  belonged  to  the 


4  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

unjoyous  race  of  New  England  Brahmins,  who  were  sur 
prisingly  like  the  snow  men  children  make,  in  that  they 
lacked  natural  heat  and  bowels.  We  may  not  forget  that  a 
poet  who  stands  for  all  time  as  an  ideal  type  of  sanity  and 
genius — the  always  contemporary  Quintus  Horatius  Flac- 
cus — has  in  many  places  guaranteed  mediocrity  to  the  ab 
staining  bard. 

So  there  was  the  best  poetical  warrant  for  Poe's  drinking, 
if  he  could  only  have  got  any  good  out  of  it.  But  he  couldn't 
and  didn't;  he  was  merely,  at  times  frequent  enough  to 
justify  his  enemies,  an  ordinary  dipsomaniac,  craving  the 
madness  of  alcohol;  mirthless,  darkly  sullen,  quite  insane, 
though  perhaps  physically  harmless;  hardly  conscious  of  his 
own  identity.  Of  the  genial  god  Booze,  who  rewards  his  true 
devotees  with  jollity  and  mirth,  with  forgetfulness  of  care 
and  the  golden  promise  of  fortune,  who  makes  poets  of  dull 
men  and  gods  of  poets — of  this  splendid  and  beneficent  deity, 
Poe  knew  nothing.  That  spell  from  which  Horace  drew  his 
most  charming  visions;  which  inspired  Burns  with  courage 
to  sing  amid  the  hopeless  poverty  of  his  lot;  which  kindled 
the  genius  of  Byron  and  allured  the  fancy  of  Heine,  like  his 
own  Lorelei;  which  is  three-fourths  of  Beranger  and  one- 
half  of  Moore — to  Poe  meant  only  madness,  the  sordid  kind 
from  which  men  turn  away  with  horror  and  disgust,  and 
which  too  often  leads  to  the  clinic  and  the  potter's  field.  The 
kindly  spirit  of  wine,  that  for  a  brief  time  at  least  works  an 
inspiring  change  in  every  man,  enlarging  the  sympathies, 
softening  the  heart,  prompting  new  and  generous  impulses, 
opening  the  soul  shut  up  to>  self  to  the  greater  claims  and 
interests  of  humanity,  was,  in  the  case  of  Poe,  turned  into  a 
malefic  genie,  intent  only  upon  the  lowest  forms  of  animal 
gratification  and  reckless  of  any  and  every  ill  wrought  to 
body  and  soul. 

In  other  words — for  I  must  not  write  a  conventional  essay 
— Poet  was  the  kind  of  man  that  never  should  have  touched 


THE  POE  LEGEND 


5 


the  cup.  For  there  are  some  men — oh,  yes,  I  know  it! — to 
whom  the  mildest  wine  ever  distilled  from  grapes  kissed  by 
the  sun  in  laughing  valleys,  is  deadly  poison,  fatal  as  that 
draught  brewed  of  old  by  the  Colchian  enchantress.  And  of 
these  was  poor  Edgar  Poe. 

Neither  were  there  for  him  those  negative  but  still  pleas 
ing  virtues  which  are  sometimes  credited  to  a  worshiper  of 
the  great  god  Booze — perhaps  they  are  mostly  fictitious,  but 
this  is  a  fraud  at  which  Virtue  herself  may  connive.  I  am 
very  sure  no  one  ever  called  Poe  a  "good  fellow"  for  all  the 
whiskey  he  drank;  and  his  biographers  also  make  the  same 
omission.  The  drunkenness  of  Burns  calls  up  the  laughing 
genius  of  a  hundred  matchless  ballads,  the  dance,  the  fair 
and  the  hot  love  that  followed  close  upon ;  calls  up  the  epic 
riot  of  beggars  in  the  ale-house  of  Poosie  Nancy — and  we 
see  the  whole  vivid  life  of  Burns  was  of  a  piece  with  his 
poetry.  To  wish  him  less  drunken  or  more  sober  (if  you 
prefer  it)  is  to  wish  him  less  a  poet. 

Not  so  with  Poe,  as  I  have  already  shown.  He  got  nothing 
from  drink,  in  the  way  of  literary  inspiration,  though  some 
of  his  critics  think  he  did,  and,  being  themselves  both  sober 
and  dull,  appear  to  doubt  whether  anything  so  gotten  is 
legitimate.  I  hate  to  lay  irreverent  hands  on  the  popular 
belief  that  "The  Raven"  was  composed  during  or  just  fol 
lowing  a  crisis  of  drunken  delirium — the  poem  is  too  elabo 
rately  artificial  for  that, — and  has  not  Poe  told  us  how  he 
wrote  it,  in  a  confession  which,  more  clearly  than  all  the 
labored  efforts  of  his  biographers,  explains  the  vanity,  the 
weakness  and  the  fatal  lack  of  humor  in  his  make-up?  I  do 
not  find  any  suggestions  of  drink  or  "dope"  in  the  samples  of 
his  prose  which  I  dislike,  such  as  a  few  of  his  "Old  World 
Romances."  If  there  be  any  "dope"  in  this  stuff,  it  is,  in  my 
opinion,  the  natural  dope  of  faculties  when  driven  against 
their  will  to  attempt  things  beyond  the  writer's  province  or 
power.  And  there  is  also  the  "dope"  of  what  could  be,  at 


6  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

times,  a  fearfully  bad  style.    But  I  am  not  writing  a  literary 
essay. 

I  conclude,  then,  that  in  the  case  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
drink  has  no  extenuating  circumstances,  though  many  might 
be  pleaded  for  the  poet  himself.  It  made  enemies  for  him  of 
those  who  wanted  to  be  his  friends  (if  you  will  only  believe 
them)  ;  it  lost  him  his  money — deuced  little  of  it  ever  he 
had ;  it  helped  to  break  his  health,  and  it  gave  him  no  valua 
ble  literary  inspiration.  Some  solace,  I  would  gladly  think, 
it  yielded  him,  and  maybe  (who  knows?)  there  was  a  blessed 
nepenthe  in  the  peace  it  brought  him  at  last  when,  after 
babbling  a  while  on  his  cot  in  that  Baltimore  hospital,  there 
came  to  him  the  only  dreamless  sleep  he  was  to  know. 


|LL  his  life  long  Poe  dreamed  of  having  a  maga 
zine  of  his  own  and  never  got  his  desire.  He 
was  always  writing  to  his  friends  and  possible 
patrons  about  this  one  darling  dream ;  but  noth 
ing  came  of  it.  The  nearest  he  ever  got  to  his 
wish  was  when  he  succeeded  in  drawing  into  his  plan  one  T. 
C.  Clarke,  a  Philadelphia  publisher.  Clarke  had  money,  and 
he  put  up  a  certain  amount  toward  the  starting  of  the 
"Penn,"  as  the  magazine  was  to  be  called.  Some  initial  steps 
were  taken,  and  the  moment  seems  to  have  been  the  most 
sanguine  in  Poe's  long  battle  with  adversity.  He  was  full  of 
enthusiasm  and  wrote  to  many  friends,  detailing  his  literary 
hopes  and  projects  in  connection  with  the  new  magazine. 
Then  suddenly,  and  rather  unaccountably,  everything  was 
dropped.  It  seems  likely  that  Clarke  took  cold  in  his  money — 
at  any  rate  the  "Penn"  died  a-borning.  Poe  had  gone  far 
enough  to  incur  a  good-sized  debt  to  Clarke — he  left  in  the 
latter's  hands  a  manuscript  as  security,  which  we  may  sup- 


THE  POE  LEGEND  7 

pose  did  not  raise  the  temperature  of  that  gentleman's 
finances. 

Then  the  planning  and  the  letter-writing  and  the  making 
of  prospectuses,  with  other  architectural  projects  of  the 
Spanish  variety,  went  on  and  continued  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter — good  God !  how  pathetic  and  yet  grimly  humorous 
it  all  is  to  one  who  has  carried  the  same  cross,  and  knows 
every  inch  of  that  Calvary !  Poe  was  at  least  spared  the  strug 
gle  which  comes  after  possession;  but  I  am  aware  that  this  is 
no  consolation  to  the  man  who  is  dying  to  make  his  fight. 

Yet  once  again  the  chance  fluttered  into  his  hands,  when 
he  bought  the  "Broadway  Journal"  from  a  man  named  Bisco 
with  a  note  of  fifty  dollars  endorsed  by  Horace  Greeley.  Not 
long  afterward  Horace  had  the  pleasure  of  paying  the  note 
and  remained  to  the  end  a  strong  believer  in  Poe's  imagina 
tive  gifts.  About  the  same  time  that  the  philosopher  parted 
with  his  money,  Poe  gave  up  his  brief  possession  of  the 
"Journal."  But  still  he  went  on  in  the  old  hopeless,  hopeful 
way,  dreaming  of  that  blessed  magazine,  -which  he  had  now 
decided  to  call  the  "Stylus"  instead  of  the  "Penn."  And  a 
name  only  it  remained  to  the  last. 

From  these  and  many  similar  facts  in  the  life  of  Poe,  his 
biographers  to  a  man  conclude  that  he  had  no  business  abil 
ity.  I  am  not  so  sure — I  am  only  sure  that  he  never  had  the 
money.  In  fact,  Poe  was  never  able  to  raise  more  than  one  hun 
dred  dollars  at  any  time  in  his  whole  life — once  when  he  bor 
rowed  that  sum  to  get  married  (and  the  sneerers  say,  forgot 
to  repay  it),  and  again  when  he  won  a  like  amount  with  a 
prize  story.  Yes,  he  got  a  judgment  of  something  over  two 
hundred  dollars  against  his  savage  foe,  Thomas  Dunn  Eng 
lish,  but  I  am  not  aware  that  it  was  ever  satisfied — think  of 
Poe  suing  a  man  for  literary  libel !  His  usual  salary  was  Ten 
Dollars  a  week — Burton,  the  tragic  Comedian,  held  out  a 
promise  of  more,  but  discharged  him  when  the  time  to  make 
good  came  round — and  this  after  Poe  had  gained  what  was 


8  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

considered  a  literary  reputation  in  those  days.  With  such 
resources,  to  have  started  the  kind  of  magazine  Poe  had 
always  in  mind,  would  have  tasked  a  man  of  great  business 
ability,  with  no  poetical  ideas  floating  about  in  his  head  to 
divert  him  from  the  Main  Chance. 

Certainly  Poe  was  not  the  man  for  the  job — I  doubt  if  he 
could  have  sold  shares  in  El  Dorado.  But  I  do  not  think  his 
failures,  such  as  they  were,  justly  convict  him  of  a  complete 
lack  of  that  ordinary  sense  which  enables  a  man  to  carry  his 
money  as  far  as  the  corner.  There  is  a  popular  cant  now, 
based  on  the  success  of  some  fortunate  writers,  that  literary 
genius  of  high  order  is  not  inconsistent  with  first-rate  business 
ability.  I  do  not  care  to  go  into  the  discussion — especially  as 
this  is  not  a  literary  essay — but  I  will  say  that  in  most 
instances  cited  to  prove  the  point,  the  money  sense  is  a  good 
deal  more  obvious  than  the  literary  genius. 

To  make  what  is  called  a  business  success  in  this  world,  a 
man  is  required  to  do  homage  before  many  gods.  But  though 
he  pay  the  most  devoted  worship  to  the  divinities  of  Thrift, 
Enterprise,  Courage,  Energy,  Foresight,  Calculation,  he  will 
still  fail  should  he  omit  his  tribute  to  a  greater  god  than 
these — Expediency ! 

In  his  poetical  way  Edgar  Allan  Poe  went  a-questing 
after  many  strange  worships,  and  he  was  learned  in  all  that 
mystic  lore  as  far  back  as  the  Chaldeans.  But  he  seems  never 
to  have  got  an  inkling  of  that  one  universal  religion  in  which 
all  men  believe,  which  settles  all  earthly  things — the  relent 
less  but  impassive  Divinity  of  Affairs,  already  named,  by 
which  success  or  failure  is  determined  for  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world. 


I O WARD  the  close  of  Poe's  life  a  horde  of  female 
poets  rushed  upon  his  trail.  His  relations  with 
them  were  not  wholly  "free  from  blame,"  to 
quote  his  biographers — they  seem  to  have  been, 
at  any  rate,  platonic.  A  poetess  who  is  always 
studying  her  own  emotions  for  "copy"  is  not  to  be  taken  un 
awares.  I  think  Poe  was  in  more  danger  of  being  led  astray 
than  any  of  the  ladies  whom  he  distinguished  with  his  atten 
tions.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  they  invariably  speak  of  him  as 
a  "perfect  gentleman,"  even  after  he  had  ceased  to  honor 
them  with  his  affections.  To  me  there  is  something  rather 
literary  than  womanly  in  such  angelic  charity  and  forgive 
ness — 'tis  too  sugary  sweet.  Have  we  not  heard  that  lovers 
estranged  make  the  worst  enemies  ?  At  any  rate  the  lover  of 
"Ligeia,"  "Eleonora"  and  similar  abstractions  was  not  a 
man  to  be  feared  by  a  poetess  of  well-seasoned  virtue. 

Yes,  I  am  sure  they  only  wanted  to  get  copy  out  of  him 
and  to  link  their  names  with  his.  They  were  mostly  widows, 
too — which  makes  the  thing  even  more  suspicious.    One  of 
them — that  one  to  whom  he  addressed  his  finest  lyric — was 
forty-five.    Lord,  Lord !  what  liars  these  poets  are !    I  give 
you  my  word  that  until  very  lately  I  believed  those  perfect 
lines  "To  Helen"  idealized  some  youthful  love  of  Poe's. 
Ah!  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  fairy  land. 

Psyche  lived  in  Providence,  which  is  in  the  State  of  Rhode 
Island.  She  was,  as  I  have  said,  forty-five,  an  age  that  should 
be  above  tempting  or  temptation.  She  wrote  verses,  now  for 
gotten,  and  her  passion  for  Poe  was  of  the  most  literary 
character.  After  a  two-days'  courtship  he  proposed  to  her 
and  was  accepted,  on  condition,  however,  that  he  amend  his 
breath — which  is  to  say,  his  habits.  Poe  seems  to  have 


io  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

regretted  his  rashness,  for  he  at  once  started  on  a  bat  (these 
remarks  are  not  literary),  as  if  the  prospect  of  his  joy  was 
too  much  for  him.  Still  Helen  would  not  reject  him;  she 
merely  wrote  him  more  poetry — and  the  poet  again  turned 
to  drink  as  if  to  drown  a  great  sorrow.  A  day  was  set  for 
the  wedding,  and  he  began  celebrating  at  the  hotel  bar  long 
before  the  hour  appointed  for  the  ceremony.  Helen  heard 
of  his  early  start,  and,  knowing  what  he  could  do  in  a  long 
day  with  such  an  advantage,  she  sent  for  him  and  broke  off 
the  engagement.  This  is  the  only  instance  I  know  of  in  Poe's 
entire  career  where  his  drinking  had  the  least  appearance  of 
sanity. 

Before  this,  and  indeed  during  the  lifetime  of  Mrs.  Poe, 
he  had  broken  with  Mrs.  Ellet,  a  lady  who  made  feeble 
verse,  but  whose  ability  for  scandal  and  mischief  was  out  of 
the  ordinary.  It  was  through  this  daughter  of  the  Muses 
that  the  poet  became  estranged  from  Mrs.  Osgood,  and 
there  was  a  beautiful  women's  row,  in  which  Margaret  Ful 
ler  took  a  hand.  Mrs.  Osgood  was  a  gushing  person,  fero 
ciously  intent  on  "copy,"  but  of  mature  age  and  quite  capable 
of  taking  care  of  herself.  She  declares  and  asseverates  that 
Poe  chased  her  to  Providence — that  fatal  Providence ! — and 
to  Albany,  imploring  her  to  love  him.  I  wonder  where  he 
got  the  money  for  these  journeys — about  this  time  he  was 
lecturing  on  the  "Cosmogony  of  the  Universe,"  in  order  to 
raise  funds  for  his  eternally  projected  magazine.  The  very 
popular  nature  of  the  subject  and  his  own  qualities  as  a  ly- 
ceum  entertainer,  which  never  would  have  commended  him 
to  the  late  Major  Pond — incline  me  to  the  belief  that  Poe 
was  not  at  that  time  burning  much  money  in  trips  to  Provi 
dence  and  Albany. 

At  any  rate  Mrs.  Osgood  cut  him  out,  though  on  her 
death-bed,  with  a  last  effort  of  the  ruling  passion  (or  literary 
motive)  she  very  handsomely  forgave  him  and  pronounced 
a  touching  eulogy  on  his  moral  character. 


THE  POE  LEGEND  1 1 

Then  there  was  "Annie,"  a  married  woman  living  near 
Boston,  to  whom  Poe  addressed  a  sincere  and  beautiful  poem. 
The  exigencies  of  her  case  rather  strain  the  platonic  theory, 
but  I  do  not  give  up  my  brief,  mind  you.  I  suspect  that  Annie 
was  behind  the  breaking  off  with  Helen,  but,  of  course,  he 
couldn't  marry  Annie  for  the  reason  that  she  had  a  husband 
already  (of  whom  we  know  no  more) ,  and  divorces  were  not 
then  negotiated  in  record  time.  Annie  was  therefore  obliged 
to  be  content  with  the  sweet  satisfaction  of  foiling  a  hated 
rival — and  to  a  woman's  heart  we  know  this  is  the  next  best 
thing  to  landing  the  man.  Annie,  by  the  way,  was  not  a  liter 
ary  person :  she  wanted  love  from  Poe,  not  copy ;  and  she 
seems  to  have  sincerely,  if  not  very  sensibly,  loved  the  poet 
for  himself. 

Remains  the  last  of  these  queer  attachments  which  throw 
a  kind  of  grotesque  romance  over  the  closing  years  of  Poe. 
Mrs.  Shelton  was  of  unimpeached  maturity,  like  the  rest,  and 
like  all  the  rest  but  one,  a  widow.  She  lived  in  Richmond, 
Virginia,  and  had  been  a  boyish  flame  of  Poe's.  She  was 
neither  beautiful  nor  literary,  and  she  had  attained  the  ripe 
age  of  fifty  years.  But  she  was  rich,  and  though  Poe  was  not 
a  business  man,  I  dare  say  he  felt  the  money  would  be  no 
great  inconvenience — and  then  there  was  always  the  maga 
zine  to  be  started,  dear  me !  Still  he  made  love  to  her  as  if  he 
was  half  afraid  she  would  take  him  at  his  word — and  he  kept 
writing  to  Annie !  But  Mrs.  Shelton  was  of  sterner  stuff 
than  the  poetic  Helen.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry 
Poe  for  reasons  sufficient  unto  herself,  and  she  would  have 
done  it  had  not  fate  intervened.  She  made  her  preparations 
like  a  thorough  business  woman,  and  strongmindedly  led  the 
way  toward  the  altar.  The  wedding  ring  was  bought  (I  can 
hardly  believe  with  Poe's  money),  and  all  things  were  in 
readiness  for  the  happy  event,  when  the  poet  wandered  away 
on  that  luckless  journey  whose  end  was  in  another  world. 


12  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

Mrs.  Shelton  wore  mourning  for  him,  and  all  her  women 
friends  told  her  it  was  wonderfully  becoming.  ...  I 
think  Annie's  crape  was  at  the  heart. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  a  child  in  the  hands  of  women,  and 
that's  the  whole  truth — a  loving,  weak,  vain  and  irresponsi 
ble  child.  This  count  in  the  indictment  is  the  weakest  of  all. 
I  should  not  have  referred  to  it  had  I  been  writing  a  conven 
tional  essay. 


HE  notion  that  Poe  was  mad  has  within  late  years 
received  a  quasi-scientific  confirmation — at 
least  the  doctors  have  settled  the  matter  to  their 
own  satisfaction.  I  therefore  advert  to  it  in 
order  to  dispose  of  the  Poe  indictment  in  full. 
My  learned  friend,  Dr.  William  Lee  Howard,  of  Balti 
more  (a  town  forever  memorable  to  the  lovers  of  the  poet), 
sets  out  to  prove  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  not  a  drunkard  in 
the  ordinary  sense  (which  is  ordinarily  believed),  but  was 
rather  what  the  medical  experts  are  now  calling  a  psychopath; 
in  plain  words,  a  madman.  "He  belongs,"  says  the  doctor,  "to 
that  class  of  psychopaths  too  long  blamed  and  accused  of 
vicious  habits  that  are  really  symptoms  of  disease — a  disease 
now  recognized  by  neurologists  as  psychic  epilepsy."  The 
doctor  fortifies  his  thesis  with  much  learning  of  the  same 
kind,  and  in  conclusion  he  says:  "The  psychologist  readily 
understands  the  reason  for  Poe's  intensity,  for  his  cosmic  ter 
ror  and  his  constant  dwelling  upon  the  aspects  of  physical 
decay.  He  lived  alternately  a  life  of  obsession  and  lucidity, 
and  this  duality  is  the  explanation  of  his  being  so  shamefully 
misunderstood — so  highly  praised,  so  cruelly  blamed.  In 
most  of  his  weird  and  fantastic  tales  we  can  see  the  patient 
emerging  from  oblivion.  We  find  in  his  case  many  of  the 
primary  symptoms  of  the  psychopath — a  disordered  and  dis- 


THE  POE  LEGEND  13 

turbed  comprehension  of  concepts,  suspicion,  and  exagger 
ated  ideas  of  persecution. " 

These  be  words  horrendous  and  mouth-filling,  but  surely 
I  need  not  remind  the  erudite  Dr.  Howard  that 

When  Bishop  Berkeley  said  there  was  no  matter, 
And  proved  it — 'twas  no  matter  what  he  said. 

And  I  suspect  Dr.  Howard  in  coming,  as  he  thinks,  to  the 
defence  of  Poe's  reputation,  has  done  the  poet  an  ill  service, 
though  I  doubt  if  he  will  influence  any  right-judging  minds. 
Nor  am  I  in  sympathy  with  the  doctor's  ingenious  argument 
that  the  most  strongly  marked  products  of  Poe's  genius  are 
to  be  referred  to  a  diseased  mental  and  nervous  condition; 
which  is  simply Nordau's  contention  that  all  genius  is  disease. 
According  to  this  view,  all  men  of  great  intellectual  power — 
e.  g.,  Nordau  himself  and  Dr.  William  Lee  Howard — are 
insane;  and  yet  it  is  a  fact  that  the  madhouses  are  chiefly 
peopled  with  the  average  sort  of  human  beings. 

No,  the  first  of  American  poets  was  not  mad  because  he 
wrote  "The  Raven,"  and  'The  House  of  Usher,"  and  "Li- 
geia,"  and  uThe  Red  Death."  These  masterpieces  indeed 
prove  that  he  was  at  certain  fortunate  times  in  possession  of 
that  highest  and  most  potential  sanity,  that  mens  divinior, 
from  which  true  artistic  creation  results — always  the  rarest 
and  most  beautiful  phenomenon  in  the  world. 

Mad!  I  guess  not!  but  no  doubt  he  was  thought  to  be 
cracked  by  the  half  of  his  acquaintance,  for  that  is  the  trib 
ute  which  mediocrity  ever  pays  to  genius.  The  small  grocer 
folk  and  their  kind  about  Fordham,  a  well  as  some  more  pre 
tentious  respectabilities,  looked  askance  at  the  poor  poet 
struggling  with  his  burden  and  his  vision;  fighting  his  un 
equal  battle  with  fate  and  fortune.  In  much  the  same  way, 
though  with  deeper  aversion  and  contempt,  he  was  regarded 
by  the  successful  literary  cliques  of  the  day,  especially  the 
"New  England  School"  of  his  detestation — those  thrifty, 
cold-blooded,  sagacious  persons  who  made  so  much  of  their 


14  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

very  moderate  talents.  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells,  the  leading  in 
heritor  of  their  spirit,  has  a  poor  notion  of  Poe.  In  short, 
our  poet  was  that  scandal  and  contradiction  in  his  own  day — 
a  true  genius ;  and  he  remains  an  enigma  to  ours. 

But  I  do  not  think  he  was  any  more  a  psychopath  or  a 
madman  than — bless  me! — Dr.  William  Lee  Howard  him 
self — though  I  will  grant  that,  as  we  are  now  saying,  several 
things  got  constantly  on  his  nerves.  And  among  these : 

Chronic  poverty. 

Rejection  of  his  literary  claims. 

Success  of  his  inferiors. 

The  insolence  of  publishers. 

Humiliation  of  spirit. 

And — I  must  grant  it — the  agony  induced  by  his  occa 
sional  excesses  and  his  forfeiture  of  self-respect. 

I  do  not  argue  that  the  misfortunes  prove  the  genius,  even 
though  in  Poe's  case  they  seem  to  have  been  the  penalty  an 
nexed  to  his  extraordinary  gifts — the  curse  of  the  malignant 
fairy.  But  with  due  respect  to  the  learned  authority  several 
times  referred  to,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  Bedlam  science  in  the 
world,  I  hold  to  my  faith  that  true  genius  is  not  the  negation, 
but  the  affirmation  of  sanity. 

As  for  the  literary  smugs,  to  whom  Poe  is  anathema  be 
cause  he  was  a  genius  and  also  a  scandal,  according  to  their 
moral  code:  is  it  not  enough,  gentlemen,  that  you  are  pros 
perous,  and  respectable — and  utterly  unlike  Poe  ? 


EXT  to  the  subject  of  Poe's  drinking  habits, 
which  you  have  to  follow  like  a  strong  breath 
through  every  account  of  him  that  I  have  seen — 
his  faithful  biographers  give  most  attention  to 
his  borrowings.  Hence  the  typical  Poe  biog 
raphy  reads,  as  already  suggested,  like  an  indictment. 

Now,  the  fact  is,  poor  Poe  was  as  bad  a  borrower  as  he 
was  a  drinker — he  meant  well  and  heaven  knows  he  tried 
hard  enough  in  each  capacity,  but  neither  part  fitted  him, 
and  in  both  he  failed  to  rise  to  the  dignity  of  the  artist.  He 
was  truly  a  bum  borrower  (this  is  not  a  literary  essay).  He 
never  executed  a  "touch"  with  grace  or  finesse.  Instead  of 
going  to  his  friends  with  endearing  assurance,  smiling  like  a 
May-day  at  the  honor  and  pleasure  he  designed  them,  he 
put  on  his  hat  with  the  deep  black  band  and  went  like  an 
undertaker  to  conduct  his  own  funeral.  No  wonder  they 
threw  him  down !  But  in  truth  he  rarely  had  the  courage  to 
face  his  man,  and  so  he  sent  that  poor  devoted  Mrs.  Clemm 
— that  paragon  of  mothers-in-law  for  a  poet ! — or  else  weak 
ly  relied  on  his  powers  of  literary  persuasion  and  courted  cer 
tain  refusal  by  penning  his  modest  request.  Call  this  man  a 
borrower!  Why,  he  was  a  parody  of  Charles  Lamb's  idea 
that  your  true  borrower,  Alcibiades  or  Brinsley  Sheridan, 
belongs  to  a  superior  kind  of  humanity,  the  Great  Race — 
born  to  rule  the  rest.  He  never  realized  the  greatness  of  the 
borrowing  profession — never  rose  to  it,  to  take  a  metaphor 
from  the  stage,  but  remained  a  mumping,  fearful,  calamity- 
inviting,  graceless  and  hopeless,  make-believe  borrower  to 
the  last. 

For  this  his  biographers  are  ashamed  of  him,  as  for  his 
sprees,  and  this  also  has  passed  into  the  popular  legend  con 
cerning  Poe,  of  which  the  obscure  dramatist  (already  re- 


1 6  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

ferred  to)  has  availed  himself.  Neither  the  unknown  drama 
tist  nor  his  biographers  have  deemed  it  worth  while  to  ex 
plain  this  phase  of  Poe's  life — these  are  the  facts  and  here 
are  the  letters  to  Kennedy,  Griswold,  White,  Thomas,  Gra 
ham,  Clarke,  Simms,  Willis,  et  al.  Can  you  make  anything 
else  of  them?  And  another  count  of  the  indictment  in  re 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  is  proven. 

I  am  not  writing  a  literary  essay,  but  I  must  again  lay 
stress  on  one  thing,  in  extenuation  of  Poe's  inveterate  offence 
of  borrowing  from  his  friends — he  did  it  very  badly,  so 
badly  that  this  fact  alone  should  excuse  him  in  the  eyes  of 
the  charitable.  Let  us  also  try  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  most 
he  could  earn,  after  giving  oath-bound  guarantees  as  to  so 
briety,  etc.,  was  Ten  Dollars  a  week — this  was  the  sum  for 
which  Burton  (the  tragic  Comedian)  hired  him  and  from 
which  in  a  very  short  time  the  same  Burton  ruthlessly  sepa 
rated  him.  The  joke  being  that  this  same  fat-headed  Burton 
carried  on  the  affair  with  a  high  show  of  regard  for  the  dig 
nity  of  the  Literary  Profession,  outraged  by  Poe !  Ten  Dol 
lars  a  week!  Why,  do  you  know  that  our  most  popular 
author,  Mr.  Success  G.  Smith,  is  believed  to  earn  about  fifty 
thousand  a  year  with  his  pen?  That  Mr.  Calcium  Give- 
emfitts,  the  fearless  exposer  of  corruption  in  high  places,  is 
worrying  along  on  a  beggarly  stipend  of,  say,  thirty-five 
thousand?  That  the  famous  society  novelist,  Mrs.  Tuxedo 
Jones,  barely  contrives  to  make  ends  meet  on  the  same  hard 
terms;  and  that  a  score  of  others  might  be  named  whose  in 
comes  do  not  fall  below  twenty-five  thousand  ? 

But,  you  say,  does  each  and  every  one  of  these  gifted  and 
fortunate  individuals  make  literature  in  the  sense  that  Poe 
made  it?  My  dear  sir,  these  persons  are  all  my  intimate 
friends.  I  admire  their  works  next  to  my  own,  though  I  con 
fess  I  do  not  read  them  so  often.  Therefore,  to  single  out 
one  of  these  distinguished  and  successful  authors  for  praise 
would  be  invidious,  and,  besides — I  am  not  writing  a  literary 
essay. 


LAST  word  as  to  Poe's  enemies — those  whom  he 
made  for  himself  and  those  who  were  called 
into  being  by  his  literary  triumphs.  Here  again 
I  think  Poe  failed  to  hit  it  off,  as  he  might  have 
done.  Though  he  labored  at  the  gentle  art  of 
making  enemies  with  much  diligence,  he  never  utilized  them 
with  brilliant  success  in  a  literary  way  (most  of  the  criticism 
which  procured  him  his  enemies  is  hack-writing,  not  litera 
ture)  .  For  example,  he  did  not  make  his  enemies  serve  both 
his  wit  and  reputation,  as  Heine  so  well  knew  how  to  do. 
The  latter  turned  his  foes  into  copy;  throughout  his  life  they 
were  his  chief  literary  asset,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
almost  loved  them  for  the  literature  they  enabled  him  to 
make.  This  is  the  most  exquisite  revenge  upon  a  literary 
rival — to  make  him  your  pot-boiler  and  bread-winner  as  well 
as  a  feeder  to  your  fame  and  glory.  It  was  beyond  Poe,  and, 
therefore,  the  chronicle  of  his  grudges  has  hardly  more 
piquancy  than  the  tale  of  his  borrowings. 

But  his  biographers  weary  us  with  it,  as  if  the  matter  were 
of  real  importance.  Nonsense !  Our  literary  manners  are 
doubtless  improved  since  Poe's  day;  the  brethren  are  surely 
not  so  hungry,  and  there  is  more  fodder  to  go  round  ( I  have 
said  this  is  not  a  literary  effort).  Still  the  civility  is  rather 
assumed  than  real;  there  is  much  spiteful  kicking  of  shins 
under  the  table;  and  private  lampoons  take  the  place  of  the 
old  public  personalities,  I  grant  that  authors  are  more  gen 
erous  in  their  attitude  toward  one  another  than  formerly,  and 
the  fact  cannot  be  disputed  that  they  are  fervently  sincere  in 
their  praise  of — the  dead  ones. 

No,  we  shall  not  condemn  Poe  for  the  enemies  he  made. 
The  printed  word  breeds  hostility  and  aversion  that  the 
writer  wots  not  of — yea,  his  dearest  friends,  scanning  his 


i8 


PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 


page  with  jealous  eye,  shall  take  rancor  from  his  most  guile 
less  words  and  cherish  it  in  their  bosoms  against  him.  Write, 
and  your  friends  will  love  you  till  they  hate  you ;  for  there  is 
no  fear  and  jealousy  in  the  world  like  those  that  lurk  in  the 
printed  word.  Write  then,  write  deeply  enough,  down  to 
the  truth  of  your  own  soul,  below  the  shams  of  phrase  and 
convention,  below  your  insincerities  of  self — and  you  shall 
have  enemies  to  your  heart's  desire.  The  man  who  could 
print  much  and  still  make  no  enemies,  has  never  yet  appeared 
on  this  planet.  Certainly  it  was  not  he  who  struggled  des 
perately  for  the  poorest  living  in  and  about  New  York  some 
fifty  years  ago;  who  saw  his  young  wife  die  in  want  and 
misery,  with  the  horror  of  officious  charity  at  the  door ;  who 
not  long  afterward  and  in  a  kindly  dream  (as  I  must  think 
it)  left  all  this  coil  of  trouble  and  sorrow  behind  him,  be 
queathing  to  immortality  the  fame  of  Edgar  Poe. 


In  Re  Colonel 


N  THIS  country  freedom  is  a  legal  fiction;  there 
are  varying  degrees  of  toleration,  but  no  liberty 
in  the  true  sense. 

In  England  and  Prussia,  both  countries  ruled 
by  divine  right,  there  is  more  personal  liberty 
than  in  this  Republic,  which  was  founded  upon  the  ironical 
premise  that  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal. 

The  battle  for  freedom  goes  on  eternally  —  when  we  stop 
fighting  we  slide  back  into  servitude. 

In  many  States  of  the  Union  there  are  laws  on  the  statute 
books  that  penalize  liberty  of  thought  and  speech. 

These  statutes  are  mostly  derived  from  Colonial  times  and 
the  barbarous  intolerance  of  the  Old  World.  They  are  an 
organic  link  between  us  and  the  British  tyranny  from  which 
our  patriot  fathers  appealed  to  the  sword.  No  statesman  or 
legislator  has  the  courage  to  demand  that  they  be  wiped 
from  the  statute-books.  It  is  supposed  that  the  moral  sense 
of  the  people  is  somehow  concerned  in  their  being  kept  there 
—  like  theology,  which  no  one  is  able  to  define,  but  which 
many  people  take  to  be  the  highest  and  most  valuable  kind 
of  knowledge. 

So  these  cruel  old  laws  are  not  disturbed  by  pious  legis 
lators,  who  would  make  no  bones  at  all  of  trading  in  public 
franchises,  or  of  acting  on  any  proposition  with  the  "immoral 
majority."  Hypocrisy  and  fraud  respect  in  these  shameful 
statutes  the  "wisdom"  of  our  ancestors,  and  still  affect  to  see 
in  them  a  safeguard  for  religion.  Hypocrisy  and  fraud  unite 
to  keep  them  on  the  law-books  where  they  lie,  asleep  it  may 
be,  but  ready-fanged  and  poisoned  should  they  be  invoked 
at  any  time  to  do  their  ancient  office.  Many  people  would  be 


20  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

glad  to  have  these  infamous  laws  erased  from  the  statute- 
books,  but  they  do  nothing  about  it.  The  public  sense  of 
hypocrisy  stands  in  the  way.  Legislators  fear  the  protest  of 
what  is  called  "organized  religion."  Liberty  continues  to  be 
disgraced  in  the  house  of  her  friends. 

New  Jersey  has  laws  of  this  kind.  Eighteen  years  ago  one 
of  them  was  waked  from  its  long  sleep  in  order  to  punish  a 
man  who  had  exercised  the  right  of  free  speech.  By  a  strange 
contradiction — the  result  of  yoking  the  Era  of  Liberty  with 
the  Age  of  Oppression — this  right  of  free  speech  is  guaran 
teed  in  the  Constitution  of  New  Jersey,  under  which  the  old 
cruel  Colonial  law  is  allowed  to  operate.  That  is  to  say,  the 
Constitution  both  guarantees  and  penalizes  the  same  privi 
lege — a  beautiful  example  of  consistency  arising  from  respect 
for  the  "wisdom  of  our  ancestors." 

The  trial  attracted  universal  attention  because  the  bravest 
and  ablest  advocate  of  free  speech  in  our  time  appeared  for 
the  defense.  Outside  of  the  great  principle  involved,  there 
was  little  in  the  case  to  engage  the  interest  or  sympathies  of 
Colonel  Ingersoll.  The  defendant  was  an  obscure  ex-min 
ister  named  Reynolds,  who  had  gone  over  to  infidelity.  Re 
ligion,  it  must  be  granted,  lost  less  than  Reynolds,  who  seems 
to  have  been  unable  to  maintain  himself  as  a  preacher  of  lib 
eral  doctrine.  No  doubt  many  ministers  have  profited  by  his 
example  and  stayed  where  they  were — the  free  thought 
standard  of  ability  is  a  good  deal  higher  than  the  evangelical. 
This  Reynolds  printed  and  circulated  some  literature  about 
the  Bible.  It  was  merely  puerile  and  foolish,  but  some  people 
who  looked  upon  Reynolds  as  a  nuisance  (which  I  fear  he 
was)  and  wanted  to  punish  him,  thought  it  a  good  case  for 
the  old  Colonial  statute  against  blasphemy.  Accordingly 
they  invoked  it,  and  hence  the  trial. 

The  result  of  this  now  famous  trial  for  blasphemy  proves 
that  a  law  on  the  statute-book,  no  matter  how  antiquated, 
bigoted  and  absurd — and  this  was  all  three  in  the  superlative 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  21 

degree — outweighs  with  a  jury  the  utmost  logic  and  elo 
quence  of  the  ablest  advocate.  Such  is  the  superstition  of 
law  and  such  the  desirability  of  having  on  our  statute-books 
these  bequests  from  the  blind  and  tyrannous  bigotry  of  the 
Old  World. 

We  need  not  condemn  the  twelve  Jersey  jurymen  for  sin 
ning  against  light — darkness  was  there  in  the  law  and  de 
manded  judgment  at  their  hands.  Of  course,  they  enjoyed 
the  Colonel's  eloquence;  his  marvelous  pleading;  his  logic 
that  built  up  and  buttressed  a  whole  structure  of  argument, 
while  his  oratory  ravished  them ;  his  flashes  of  wit  that  dis 
armed  every  prejudice ;  his  persuasive  power  that  almost  con 
vinced  them  they  were  free  men  with  no  slightest  obliga 
tion  to  the  servile  past.  Yes,  it  must  have  been  like  a  wonder 
ful  play  to  these  simple  Jerseymen.  No  doubt  they  congrat 
ulated  themselves  that  they  were  privileged  spectators,  see 
ing  and  hearing  it  for  nothing;  and  they  talked  or  will  talk 
of  it  to  their  dying  day.  I  think  myself  it  was  one  of  the 
most  effective  and  powerful  addresses  ever  made  to  a  jury — 
one  of  the  finest  appeals  ever  uttered  on  behalf  of  liberty— 
and  it  will  be  honored  as  it  deserves  when  this  nation  shall  be 
truly  free. 

I  daresay  some  of  these  Jerseymen  were  wavering  when 
the  Colonel  sat  down  at  last — how  could  they  help  it?  But 
the  prosecutor  reminded  them  (without  any  eloquence)  of 
their  obligations  to  city,  county  and  State.  Above  all,  there 
is  the  Law — what  are  you  going  to  do  about  that,  gentle 
men?  No  matter  whether  it  was  passed  some  two  hundred 
years  ago  and  carried  over  from  Oppression  to  Liberty — no 
matter  whether  it  was  made  for  a  state  of  civilization,  or 
barbarism,  if  you  please,  which  we  have  outgrown — there  it 
stands,  the  Law  which  safeguards  the  Church  and  the  Home 
— the  law  which  you  are  sworn  to  maintain. 

Something  like  this,  no  doubt,  the  prosecutor  must  have 


22  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

said,  but  his  remarks  were  few — he  did  not  care  to  invite  a 
comparison.   Besides,  he  knew  his  jurymen. 

Colonel  Ingersoll  had  made  a  speech  that  will  live  forever. 

He  lost  his  case. 

New  Jersey  lost  an  opportunity. 


GREAT  many  people  contend  that  we  now  enjoy 
in  this  country  as  much  liberty  (or  toleration) 
as  is  good  for  us.  To  aim  at  the  full  measure 
which  Colonel  Ingersoll  advocated  is,  in  the 

opinion  of  these  people,  to  advance  the  standard 
of  Anarchy. 

By  this  reasoning  a  man  who  is  only  half  or  three-quar 
ters  well  is  better  off  than  one  in  perfect  health. 

Complete  freedom  is  complete  well-being. 

Colonel  Ingersoll  was  the  foremost  champion  in  our  time 
of  the  rights  of  the  human  spirit. 

It  has  been  urged  that  he  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life 
threshing  out  old  theological  straw,  fighting  battles  that  had 
been  thoroughly  fought  out  long  before  his  day.  Singularly 
enough,  this  position  is  usually  taken  by  persons  attached  to 
the  theological  system  against  which  Ingersoll  waged  a 
truceless  war.  There  may  be  some  virtue  in  the  argument, 
but  it  surely  is  not  that  of  consistency. 

Let  us  be  fair.  Ingersoll  was  no  mere  echo  and  imitator  of 
the  great  liberals  who  preceded  him.  He  had  a  message  of 
his  own  to  his  own  generation.  He  was  the  best-equipped, 
most  formidable  and  persistent  advocate  of  the  liberal  prin 
ciple  which  this  country,  at  least,  has  ever  known;  and  it  is 
extremely  doubtful  if  his  equal  as  a  popular  propagandist 
was  to  be  found  anywhere. 

He  took  new  ground.  He  carried  the  flag  farther  than 
any  of  his  predecessors.  He  fought  without  compromise, 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  23 

neither  seeking  nor  giving  quarter.  He  believed  in  the  sa- 
credness  of  his  cause — the  holy  cause  of  liberty.  His  was  no 
tepid  devotion,  no  Laodicean  fervor,  no  timid  acquiescence 
dictated  by  reason  and  half  denied  by  fear. 

That  uncertain  allegiance  of  the  soul  which  Macaulay 
describes  as  the  "paradise  of  cold  hearts,"  was  not  for  him. 
The  temper  of  his  zeal  for  liberty  can  be  likened  only  to  a 
consuming  flame;  it  burned  with  ever  increasing  ardor 
through  all  the  years  of  his  long  life;  it  was  active  up  to  the 
very  moment  when  jealous  Death  touched  his  eloquent  lips 
with  silence. 

It  was  a  grand  passion,  and,  like  every  grand  passion,  it 
had  grand  results. 

Heine  has  said  that  no  man  becomes  greatly  famous  with 
out  passion ;  that  it  is  the  mark  by  which  we  know  the  inspired 
man  from  the  mere  servant  or  spectator  of  events. 

I  see  this  mark  in  Abraham  Lincoln — in  the  Gettysburg 
speech,  in  the  Proclamation  and  some  of  the  Messages.  The 
divine  passion  that  announces  a  man  with  a  mission  and  a 
destiny  beyond  his  fellows. 

I  see  this  mark  in  Robert  G.  Ingersoll.  I  have  lately  read 
the  greater  part  of  his  work — lectures,  speeches,  controver 
sial  writings — and  the  cumulative  sense  I  take  from  it  is  that 
of  wonder  at  the  passion  of  the  man.  Perhaps  it  never  found 
better,  never  attained  higher  expression  than  in  these  words: 

"I  plead  for  light,  for  air,  for  opportunity.  I  plead  for 
individual  independence.  I  plead  for  the  rights  of  labor  and 
of  thought.  I  plead  for  a  chainless  future.  Let  the  ghosts 
go — justice  remains.  Let  them  disappear — men  and  women 
and  children  are  left.  Let  the  monsters  fade  away — the  world 
is  here  with  its  hills  and  seas  and  plains,  with  its  seasons  of 
smiles  and  frowns,  its  spring  of  leaf  and  bud,  its  summer  of 
shade  and  flower  and  murmuring  stream,  its  autumn  with  the 
laden  boughs,  when  the  withered  banners  of  the  corn  are 
still  and  gathered  fields  are  growing  strangely  wan;  while 


24  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

death,  poetic  death,  with  hands  that  color  what  they  touch, 
weaves  in  the  autumn  wood  her  tapestries  of  gold  and  brown. 

"The  world  remains  with  its  winters  and  homes  and  fire 
sides,  where  grow  and  bloom  the  virtues  of  our  race.  Let 
the  ghosts  go — we  will  worship  them  no  more. 

"Man  is  greater  than  these  phantoms.  Humanity  is  grand 
er  than  all  the  creeds,  than  all  the  books.  Humanity  is  the 
great  sea,  and  these  creeds,  and  books,  and  religions  are  but 
the  waves  of  a  day.  Humanity  is  the  sky,  and  these  religions 
and  dogmas  and  theories  are  but  the  mists  and  clouds  chang 
ing  continually,  destined  finally  to  melt  away. 

"That  which  is  founded  on  slavery,  and  fear,  and  ignor 
ance  cannot  endure." 


T  IS  agreed  by  persons  who  make  it  a  virtue 
never  to  say  what  they  really  think,  that  Colonel 
Ingersoll  was  without  influence  upon  the  intelli 
gent  thought  of  the  day — by  which  intelligent 
thought  they  mean  themselves. 

If  this  be  true,  we  lack  an  explanation  of  the  fact  that  his 
books  and  lectures  are  selling  by  the  thousands,  both  in  this 
country  and  in  England.  If  the  testimony  of  the  book-stalls 
amounts  to  anything,  then  the  great  Agnostic  did  not  cast 
his  "seed  of  perdition"  upon  barren  ground.  Whether  for 
right  or  wrong,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  his  word  is  march 
ing  on. 

From  the  Silence  that  comes  to  all  men  he  has  gained  a 
higher  claim  upon  our  attention,  a  more  valid  right  to  plead. 
We  remember  that  he  was  faithful  unto  death.  With  the 
cessation  of  that  defiant  personality,  about  which  so  long 
raged  the  din  of  controversy,  men  have  leave  to  study  his 
best  thought  in  the  dry  light  of  reason.  He  that  is  dead  over- 
cometh. 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  25 

During  his  life  Colonel  Ingersoll  gave  and  took  many 
hard  blows — that  is,  he  fought  his  adversaries  with  the 
weapons  of  their  choice. 

Often  it  seemed  to  those  who  were  in  sympathy  with 
much  that  he  said,  with  much  that  he  contended  for,  that  he 
might  have  used  softer  words ;  that  he  might  have  dealt  less 
brutally  with  inherited  beliefs  and  prejudices ;  in  short,  that 
he  might  have  employed  rosewater  instead  of  vitriol. 

The  answer  to  this  is,  Colonel  Ingersoll  fought  without 
compromise.  From  his  first  public  utterance  he  made  his 
position  plain.  He  never  faltered,  shuffled  or  equivocated. 
He  knew  that  mutual  compliments  cloud  the  issue;  he  asked 
none,  gave  none. 

But  the  fact  really  is,  he  was  far  kinder  and  more  char 
itable  toward  his  adversaries  than  they  were  toward  him. 
Besides,  they  had  a  great  advantage  in  unkindness :  they  were 
always  sending  him  to  their  hell — and  he  had  no  hell  to  send 
them  to! 

However,  I  do  not  believe  that  Colonel  Ingersoll  would 
have  fared  much  better  at  the  hands  of  the  clergy  had  he, 
while  professing  infidelity,  made  his  declaration  of  unfaith  in 
the  mildest  and  most  colorless  terms.  Euphemism  would  not 
have  saved  the  Colonel,  and  this  he  well  knew,  having  one  of 
the  most  logical  minds  in  the  world. 

No  infidel  was  ever  so  tender  toward  the  sensibilities  of 
the  orthodox  as  Ernest  Renan,  who,  though  he  left  the  altar, 
yet  (as  Ingersoll  shrewdly  said)  carried  the  incense  a  great 
part  of  his  journey  with  him. 

Kenan's  attitude  toward  the  old  faith  which  he  had  re 
nounced  was  that  of  a  sentimental  iconoclast — but  an  icono 
clast,  for  all  that.  He  wrote  his  "Life  of  Jesus"  with  a  kind 
of  pious  infidelity,  coloring  it  with  such  euphemism,  handling 
it  with  such  precaution,  that  some  persons  took  it  for  an 
orthodox  account.  He  discloses  his  motive  in  the  prefaces 
but  almost  suppresses  it  in  the  body  of  the  book.  His  criti- 


26  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

cism  is  the  best  in  the  world,  his  romance  no  better  than 
Chateaubriand's — a  woman  said  that  the  "Life  of  Jesus" 
read  as  if  it  was  going  to  end  with  a  marriage !  In  my  poor 
opinion  one  or  two  chapters  of  Kenan's  "Recollections"  is 
worth  the  "Life  of  Jesus." 

Renan  loved  the  grand  old  Church  which  had  educated 
him,  as  his  "dearest  foe."  His  mind  had  been  formed  by 
contact  with  her  at  a  hundred  points.  The  poetry  of  her 
ritual,  the  pomp  of  her  service,  the  grandeur  of  her  titles, 
the  majesty  of  her  spiritual  dominion,  never  quite  lost  their 
power  to  impress  his  soul — even  when  he  was  prophesying 
that  the  days  of  her  greatness  were  numbered.  He  spoke  of 
the  clergy  always  with  respect,  often  with  compliment,  de 
claring  in  his  latest  book  that  he  had  never  known  a  bad 
priest.  He  abhorred  all  coarseness,  all  invective,  all  vulgar 
ity,  all  violence.  Nothing  common,  low  or  brutal  was  ever 
suffered  to  mar  the  translucent  mirror  of  his  perfect  style. 
In  theory  a  democrat,  he  had  the  mental  manners  which  are 
fostered  by  a  clerical  aristocracy.  Every  faculty  of  his  mind 
paid  homage  to  the  Church,  except  his  reason. 

Renan  never  lost  his  feeling  of  reverence  for  the  sacred 
mysteries  of  the  faith  in  which  his  youth  was  cradled — but 
he  wrote  the  "Prayer  on  the  Acropolis."  He  rebuked  Strauss 
and  Feuerbach  for  the  ruthless  way  in  which  they  attacked 
the  Christian  legend — he  pleaded  for  tenderness  in  demol 
ishing  a  religion  which  had  been  the  hope  of  the  world.  He 
confessed  that  he  never  could  wholly  put  off  the  cassock,  and 
he  seemed  like  an  unfrocked  bishop  on  the  heights  of  science. 
If  ever  an  infidel  deserved  charity  at  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
that  infidel  was  Renan. 

Did  he  get  it? — not  even  Voltaire  was  assailed  with  a 
greater  virulence  of  ecclesiastical  rancor,  the  most  infernal 
malice  ever  planted  in  the  heart  of  man. 

The  ecclesiastical  spirit  is  the  same  in  all  ages.  It  crucified 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  it  burned  Giordano  Bruno.  When  Serve- 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  27 

tus  writhed  at  the  stake  in  his  death  agony,  Calvin,  his  mur 
derer,  drew  near,  saluted  him  as  the  son  of  the  devil  and 
piously  committed  his  soul  to  hell. 

Renan  was  cursed  and  slandered  with  that  special  ingenu 
ity  which  has  always  belonged  to  the  Church,  and  the  priests 
whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of  complimenting,  with  great  fer 
vor  saluted  him  as  the  Anti-Christ  ! 

Colonel  Ingersoll's  reasoning  was  good.  Compliments  are 
vain  in  an  irreconcilable  conflict. 


|OST  speeches  are  not  literature  —  they  do  not  read 
as  they  were  heard,  as  they  were  spoken.  Lack 
ing  the  living  voice,  the  speaking  eye,  the  per 
sonality  from  which  they  derived  their  force, 
they  seem  cold,  inanimate,  without  that  vital 
principle  which  is  the  product  of  genius  and  art. 

The  orator's  triumphs  are  usually  short-lived,  like  those 
of  the  actor.  They  are  the  children  of  the  time,  not  of  the 
eternities. 

But  there  are  exceptions,  though  rare,  and  among  these  we 
may  reckon  the  best  speeches  of  Colonel  Ingersoll. 

Our  American  literature  has  nothing  better  of  their  kind 
than  the  Decoration  Day  Oration,  the  lectures  on  Ghosts, 
Orthodoxy,  Superstition,  Individuality,  Liberty  for  Man, 
Woman  and  Child,  Shakespeare,  Voltaire,  Humboldt, 
Thomas  Paine,  and  some  others. 

These  are  so  vital,  so  charged  with  intellectual  power,  so 
instinct  with  a  passionate  love  of  truth  and  justice,  so  elo 
quent  and  logical,  so  clear  and  convincing  —  above  all,  so 
readable  —  that  they  can  afford  to  dispense  with  the  living 
voice;  that  is,  they  are  in  a  true  sense  literature. 

I  doubt  if  this  enviable  distinction  belongs  in  equal  meas 
ure  to  any  other  American  orator. 


28  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

The  explanation  is  that  Colonel  Ingersoll  was  an  artist  as 
well  as  an  orator :  he  knew  that  without  the  preserving  touch 
of  art,  the  most  impassioned  oratory  soon  goes  back  to  com 
mon  air.  He  was  one  of  the  great  masters  of  our  English 
speech,  never  seeking  the  abstruse  or  the  obsolete,  believing 
that  the  tongue  of  Shakespeare  was  adequate  to  every  neces 
sity  of  argument,  every  excursion  of  fancy,  every  sentiment 
of  poetry,  every  demand  of  oratory. 

His  skill  in  construction,  in  antithesis,  in  balancing  pe 
riods,  in  leading  up  to  the  lofty  climax  whicch  crowned  the 
whole,  was  that  of  a  wizard  of  speech.  He  never  fell  short 
or  came  tardy  off — his  means  were  always  adequate  to  his 
ends;  and  the  close  of  every  speech  was  like  a  strain  of 
music.  Rich  as  his  mind  was,  immense  his  intellectual  re 
sources,  undaunted  the  bravery  of  his  spirit,  there  was  yet 
manifest  in  all  his  work  the  wise  husbandry  of  genius.  His 
power  never  ran  to  excess;  never  dwindled  to  impotence. 

Nature,  too,  is  economical  and  dislikes  to  double  her  gifts : 
yet  this  man  was  a  great  poet  as  well  as  a  great  orator.  I 
have  quoted  above  a  paragraph  from  one  of  his  orations, 
which  is  the  fine  gold  of  sterling  poetry. 

Charles  Lamb  tells  us  that  "Prose  hath  her  harmonies  no 
less  than  Verse,"  and  we  know  that  the  speech  of  every  true 
orator  is  rhythmic.  It  was  eminently  so  with  Colonel  Inger 
soll,  who,  like  Dickens,  often  fell  unconsciously  into  blank 
verse.  Here  are  a  few  examples  taken  at  random ;  and  first 
this  bit  of  what  we  are  now  calling  "nature  poetry:" 

"The  rise  and  set  of  sun, 
The  birth  and  death  of  day, 
The  dawns  of  silver  and  the  dusks  of  gold, 
The  wonders  of  the  rain  and  snow, 
The  shroud  of  winter  and 
The  many-colored  robes  of  spring; 
The  lonely  moon  with  nightly  loss  or  gain, 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  29 

The  serpent  lightning  and  the  thunder's  voice, 
The  tempest's  fury  and  the  breath  of  morn, 
The  threat  of  storm  and  promise  of  the  bow." 

Nothing  could  excel  in  beauty  and  metrical  grace  this  de 
scription  of  the  old  classic  myths : 

"They  thrilled  the  veins  of  Spring  with  tremulous  desire; 
Made  tawny  Summer's  billowed  breast  the  throne  and  home 

of  Love; 
Filled  Autumn's  arms  with  sun-kissed  grapes  and  gathered 

sheaves ; 

And  pictured  Winter  as  a  weak  old  king 
Who  felt,  like  Lear,  upon  his  withered  face, 
Cordelia's  tears." 

This  on  Shakespeare,  reveals  the  poet  in  the  orator: 

"He  knew  the  thrills  and  ecstasies  of  love, 
The  savage  joys  of  hatred  and  revenge. 
He  heard  the  hiss  of  envy's  snakes 
And  watched  the  eagles  of  ambition  soar. 
There  was  no  hope  that  did  not  put  its  star  above  his 

head — 

No  fear  he  had  not  felt — 
No  joy  that  had  not  shed  its  sunshine  on  his  face." 

The  critics,  I  am  aware,  make  this  kind  of  writing  a  fault 
in  prose,  but  we  should  be  glad  to  get  real  poetry,  wherever 
we  may  find  it.  Colonel  Ingersoll's  greatest  distinction  as  a 
poet  is,  that  he  never  fails  to  interest  us — the  regular  metre- 
mongers  may  well  envy  him. 


LIKE  his  distinct  literary  style — the  style  of  his 
miscellanies,  of  his  controversial  papers,  of  his 
occasional  bits  of  wisdom  and  fancy  and  criti 
cism.     Perhaps  the  thoroughly  human  side  of 
the  man  is  best  seen  in  these  unrelated  efforts — 
these  vagrant  children  of  his  mind.    You  know  that  this  man 
thought  before  he  took  the  pen  in  hand.     He  writes  without 
pretence,  without  the  vices  of  the  literary  habit,  without  arti 
fice   or   evasion, — clearly,    frankly,    as   a    gentleman   should 
speak.     In  written  controversy  he  was  relentless  in  his  logic, 
—pressing  the  point  home, — but  unfailing  in  courtesy.     As 
he  himself  would  have  said,  his  mental  manners  were  good 
—they  were  at  any  rate   "sweetness  and  light"  compared 
with  those  of  his  adversaries. 

He  did  not  profess  to  love  his  enemies,  yet  he  treated 
them  more  humanely  than  many  who  made  that  profession. 

We  are  never  to  forget  that  the  chief  article  of  his  of 
fending  was,  that  he  made  war  upon  the  dogma  of  an  ever 
lasting  hell. 

In  his  controversies  he  was  never  worsted  and  his  vic 
tories  seem  not  less  due  to  his  own  fairness  in  argument  and 
tenacity  of  logic  than  to  the  weakness  and  confusion  of  his 
opponents.  The  natural  and  the  supernatural  can  not  main 
tain  a  profitable  argument.  They  can  never  agree  and,  strict 
ly  speaking,  one  can  not  overcome  the  other — they  occupy 
separate  realms. 

It  is  useless  for  a  man  who  believes  in  miracles  to  argue 
with  a  man  who  does  not — a  miracle  and  a  fact  are  in  the  na 
ture  of  things  irreconcilable. 

Renan  said  to  the  theologians,  "Come,  gentlemen,  let  us 
have  one  miracle  here  before  the  savants  in  Paris — that  will 
end  the  dispute  forever."  He  asked  in  vain — miracles  are 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  31 

no  longer  granted  for  the  conversion  of  infidels,  and  if  they 
occur  at  all,  it  is  before  witnesses  whose  faith  predisposes 
them  to  belief.  It  may  be  hazarded  that  no  one  ever  believed 
in  a  miracle  who  did  not  wish  to  believe  in  it. 

From  a  human  standpoint — we  really  don't  know  of  any 
other — the  honors  of  controversy  usually  fell  to  Colonel  In- 
gersoll.  His  apparent  victories  were,  of  course,  easily  waived 
by  those  who  believed  that  they  had  miraculous  truth  on 
their  side.  Yet  they  must  have  regretted  that  the  supernat 
ural  can  be  so  ill  defended.  That  all  the  advantage  of  rea 
son  would  seem  to  be  with  the  enemy  of  light.  That  one 
who  can  make  himself  understood  should  prevail  over  the 
champion  of  Divine  truth,  which  is  in  its  nature  incompre 
hensible.  That  it  should  be  so  hard  to  square  reason  with 
revelation,  fact  with  fable,  method  with  miracle,  dreams 
with  demonstrations. 

Of  all  these  tourneys  of  skill  and  wit  and  logic,  Colonel 
Ingersoll  is  seen  at  his  best  in  his  reply  to  Gladstone.  Per 
haps  nothing  that  he  ever  did  more  thoroughly  certifies  the 
power  and  keenness  of  his  mind,  the  bed-rock  of  his  convic 
tions.  He  was  like  an  athlete  rejoicing  in  his  strength;  mer 
ciful  to  his  adversary,  as  feeling  that  the  victory  was  sure; 
always  conscious  of  his  power,  but  ruling  himself  with  per 
fect  poise.  The  one  touch  of  malice  that  he  allowed  himself 
was  when  he  quoted  for  Mr.  Gladstone's  benefit  the  saying  of 
Aristotle,  that  "clearness  is  the  virtue  of  style:"  this  ar 
row  pierced  the  heart  of  the  British  behemoth. 

In  truth,  Mr.  Gladstone,  the  man  of  many  languages, 
the  world-famed  orator,  the  "most  learned  layman  in  Eu 
rope,"  appeared  at  a  ludicrous  disadvantage  in  his  duel  with 
the  American.  He  tried  to  write  in  the  bishop's  voice,  to 
overawe  his  adversary  with  Greek  and  Latin  quotations, 
omitting  to  give  the  English  equivalent.  He  begged  the 
question,  floundered  about  it,  did  everything  but  argue  it, 
and  finally  took  refuge  behind  the  "exuberance  of  his  own 


32  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

verbosity."  Colonel  Ingersoll,  cool,  relentless,  urbane,  in 
flexible,  asked  only  for  the  facts :  Mr.  Gladstone,  flustered, 
irritated,  conscious  of  his  weakness,  had  none  to  give  and 
raised  a  cloud  of  words.  In  this  world  Mr.  Gladstone 
never  answered  Colonel  Ingersoll's  reply — perhaps  he  is  oc 
cupying  himself  with  a  rejoinder  in  the  next. 


OLONEL  Ingersoll  has  been  so  slandered  and  de 
famed  by  the  friends  of  orthodox  religion  that 
many  people  have  no  just  idea  of  the  man  or  of 
the  principles  for  which  he  contended.  Slander 
is  too  often  the  favorite  weapon  of  those  who 
love  their  enemies  as  themselves.  It  was  used  so  effectively 
against  Voltaire  that  even  at  this  late  day  many  liberal  Chris 
tians  are  afraid  to  read  him. 

Let  us  see.     Did  Ingersoll  say  there  is  no  God? 

No;  he  said  he  did  not  know. 

What  did  he  deny  as  to  God? 

He  denied  the  existence  of  the  personal  Jewish  God — the 
Jehovah  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures. 

He  denied  and  repudiated  the  dogma  of  an  eternal  hell, 
said  to  have  been  made  by  this  Jehovah  in  order  to  gratify 
his  revenge  upon  the  great  majority  of  the  human  race. 

Did  he  attack  Christianity? 

He  attacked  only  the  evil  part  of  it,  in  so  far  as  it  justified 
and  continued  the  curses  of  the  Old  Testament.  He  made  a 
distinction  between  the  real  and  the  theological  Christ;  the 
first  he  honored  as  a  great  moral  teacher  and  a  martyr  of 
freedom,  killed  by  the  orthodox  priests  of  his  day;  the  sec 
ond  he  denied  and  repudiated  as  a  creation  of  men. 

Did  he  believe  in  a  Hereafter? 

He  believed  that  no  one  could  know  whether  there  is  or  is 
not  a  future  life  of  the  soul.  But  he  was  not  without  the 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  33 

hope  of  immortality  which  has  in  all  ages  cheered  and  forti 
fied  the  heart  of  man. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  he  did  not  accept  the  Revela 
tion  of  the  Hebrew  Bible,  its  cosmogony,  geology  or  moral 
ity  ;  nor  the  New  Testament  with  its  Scheme  of  Atonement 
and  threat  of  Eternal  Damnation — God  suffering  in  his  own 
person  for  the  sins  of  the  world,  yet  condemning  the  far 
greater  number  of  his  children  to  everlasting  pain. 

What  positive  effect  had  his  example  and  teaching? 

It  liberalized  the  creeds  in  spite  of  themselves. 

It  made  the  preaching  of  hell  unpopular. 

It  made  for  sanity  in  religion  and  enlarged  the  province 
of  honest  doubt. 

It  caused  men  to  think  more  of  the  simple  human  virtues 
and  less  of  the  theological  ones. 

There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that  it  saved  many  from  the  mad 
house  who  might  have  accused  themselves  of  committing  the 
Unpardonable  Sin. 

It  helped  to  make  better  husbands,  kinder  fathers,  more 
loyal  and  loving  sons. 

It  was  a  great  step  toward  freedom  and  light.  It  enlarged 
the  horizon  of  hope — it  advanced  the  standard  of  liberty. 

Was  his  teaching  in  any  degree  or  sense  offensive? 

Only  to  those  who  were  committed  to  one  or  other  of  the 
creeds  derived  from  the  Jewish  Bible.  Still,  he  did  them 
good,  though  they  would  not  admit  it. 

Colonel  Ingersoll  was  a  free  man,  talking  in  a  country 
where  all  are  presumed  to  be  free,  yet  his  courage,  more  than 
the  laws,  protected  him. 

He  upheld  public  and  private  morality  and  was  himself  an 
exemplar  of  both. 

He  loved  only  one  woman  as  his  wife  and  lived  with  her 
in  perfect  honor  and  fidelity.  He  loved  his  children  and  was 
idolized  by  them. 

His  abilities  and  services  reflected  honor  upon  the  state. 


34  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

It  is  agreed  that  but  for  his  religious  views,  he  might  have 
reached  the  greatest  honor  in  the  nation's  gift.  As  it  is,  he 
has  gained  a  place  in  the  Republic  of  Intellect  to  which  few 
of  o-ur  Presidents  may  aspire. 

His  crime  was,  that  he  had  elected  to  exercise  his  reason^ 
had  interrogated  Revelation,  put  Moses  in  the  witness-box 
and  asked  for  the  facts. 


OLONEL  Ingersoll  belongs  with  the  select  com 
pany  of  the  great  Americans. 

He  is  of  the  fellowship  of  Jefferson  and 
Franklin,  of  Lincoln  and  Sumner.  His  patriot 
ism  was  second  only  to  his  passion  for  universal 
liberty.  He  loved  his  country  beyond  everything  except  free 
dom.  He  was  not  a  fireside  patriot — the  temper  of  his  devo 
tion  had  been  proved  in  the  baptism  of  battle.  His  patriotic 
speeches  rank  with  the  best  in  our  literature:  the  Vision  of 
War  is  as  high  an  utterance  as  Lincoln's  Gettysburg  Speech 
and  as  surely  immortal. 

He  was  a  great  American,  loving  liberty,  fraternity,  equal 
ity.  He  hated  the  spirit  of  Caste  which  he  saw  rising  among 
our  people,  and  he  struck  at  it  with  all  the  force  of  his  hon 
est  anger. 

He  despised  the  worship  of  titles  among  the  rich,  their 
tuft-hunting,  aping  of  aristocratic  airs  and  mean  prostration 
before  the  self-styled  nobility  of  the  Old  World.  To  him 
the  most  loathsome  object  in  the  world  was  an  American 
ashamed  of  his  country. 

He  urged  that  the  representatives  of  republics  should  have 
precedence  at  Washington.  He  condemned  the  flummery  of 
our  diplomatic  etiquette,  the  foolish  kow-towing  designed  to 
flatter  the  ambassadors  of  servile  nations. 

His  patriotism  was  purer  than  that  of  our  Christian  states- 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL  35 

men  who  wish  to  subjugate  in  the  name  of  liberty — to  ex 
pand  in  territory  and  contract  in  honor. 

He  was  an  individualist,  believing  that  equal  rights  and 
equal  opportunities  hold  the  solution  of  every  social  problem. 

He  saw  no  evil  in  wealth,  save  the  abuse  of  it,  and  he  did 
not  think  it  a  virtue  to  be  poor. 

He  believed  that  everyone  was  entitled  to  comfort,  well- 
being,  happiness  in  this  world.  He  denied  that  God  has  pur 
posely  divided  his  children  into  rich  and  poor;  he  saw  in  this 
the  teaching  of  a  false  religious  system  which  has  sanctioned 
every  oppression  and  injustice,  and  has  cursed  the  earth  with 
misery. 

He  regarded  pauperism  not  as  a  proof  of  the  special  favor 
of  God,  but  as  an  indictment  of  man. 

He  was  a  lover  of  justice,  of  mercy,  of  humanity.  He 
was  a  true  friend  of  the  toiling  millions  and  in  their  behalf 
pleaded  for  a  working  day  of  eight  hours.  Christianity  had 
long  suffered  it,  but  he  was  unwilling  that  a  single  over-bur 
dened  creature  should  "curse  God  and  die." 

He  pleaded  for  the  abolition  of  the  death  penalty,  that 
relic  of  savagery.  He  hated  all  forms  of  cruelty  and  vio 
lence,  but  especially  those  that  claim  the  sanction  of  law.  He 
denounced  the  whipping  post  in  Delaware — and  Delaware 
replied  by  a  threat  to  indict  him  for  blasphemy. 

He  pleaded  for  the  abolition  of  poverty  and  drunkenness, 
for  the  fullest  liberation  of  woman,  for  the  rights  of  the 
child. 

His  great  heart  went  out  in  sympathy  to  every  thing  that 
suffers — to  the  dumb  animals,  beaten  and  over-laden;  to  the 
feathered  victims  of  caprice  and  cruelty. 

The  circle  of  this  man's  philanthropy  was  complete.  He 
filled  the  measure  of  patriotism,  of  civic  duty,  of  the  sacred 
relations  of  husband  and  father,  of  generosity  and  kindness 
toward  his  fellow  men.  But  he  had  committed  treason 
against  the  Unknown,  and  this,  in  spite  of  the  fame  and 


36  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

success  which  his  talents  commanded,  made  of  him  a  social 
Pariah.  The  herd  admired  and  envied  his  freedom,  but  for 
the  most  part,  they  gave  him  the  road  and  went  by  on  the 
other  side. 


This  country  is  freer  and  better  for  the  life  of  Colonel 
Ingersoll. 

There  is  more  light,  more  air  in  the  prison-house  of  the 
ology. 

God  may  be  a  guess,  but  man  is  a  certainty;  men  are  think 
ing  more  of  their  obligations  toward  those  about  them — the 
weak,  the  helpless,  the  fallen, — and  less  about  securing  for 
themselves  a  halo  and  a  harp  in  the  New  Jerusalem. 

Ingersoll's  great  lesson  that  men  can  not  love  one  another 
if  they  believe  in  a  God  of  hate,  is  bearing  fruit. 

The  hypocrite  shall  not  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

Truth  will  yet  compel  all  the  churches  to  cease  libeling 
God  and  to  honor  humanity.  .  .  . 

The  great  man  whose  worth  and  work  I  have  barely 
glanced  at  in  these  pages,  said  bravely,  that  he  cared  less  for 
the  freedom  of  religion  than  for  the  Religion  of  Freedom. 
When  that  larger  light  shall  flood  the  world — and  not  until 
then — his  services  to  the  cause  of  Truth,  of  Liberty  and  Hu 
manity  will  be  fitly  honored. 

As  for  his  literary  testament,  I  find  it  easy  to  believe  that 
many  a  noble  sentence  winged  with  the  utmost  felicity  of 
speech,  many  a  fine  sentiment,  the  fruit  of  his  kindlier 
thought,  many  a  tender  word  spoken  to  alleviate  the  sorrow 
of  death,  will  long  remain.  Even  the  professed  critics  who 
make  so  small  ado  of  the  Colonel's  literary  merits,  may  well 
envy  him  the  noble  essay  on  Shakespeare,  the  more  powerful 
one  on  Voltaire,  or  the  beautiful  memorial  tribute  to  Walt 
Whitman.  And  it  may  that  "so  long  as  love  kisses  the  lips 


IN  RE  COLONEL  INGERSOLL 


37 


of  death,"  so  long  shall  men  and  women,  in  the  nighted 
hour  of  grief  and  loss,  bless  the  name  of  him  who  touched 
the  great  heart  of  humanity  in  that  high  and  unmatched  de 
liverance  at  his  brother's  grave.  .  .  . 

From  a  sunken  Syrian  tomb  long  antedating  the  Christian 
era,  Ernest  Renan  brushed  away  the  dust  and  found  in 
scribed  thereon  the  single  word, 

"Courage!" 


Richard  CHagncr's  Romance. 


HE  story  of  the  man  of  genius  who  finds  inspir 
ation  in  another  man's  wife  is  not  a  new  one, 
and  it  may  even  be  called  trite,  but  it  is  one  to 
which  the  world  always  lends  a  willing  ear. 

This  is  the  story  revealed  in  the  recently  pub 
lished  English  version  of  the  letters  of  Richard  Wagner  to 
Mathilde  Wesendonck.  In  Germany,  sweet  land  of  senti 
ment,  the  book  has  reached  the  twentieth  edition  and  is  gen 
erally  acclaimed  as  a  true  classic.  In  Germany,  also,  the  al 
leged  Platonic  motive  of  the  letters,  elsewhere  looked  at 
askance,  is  easily  admitted,  since,  as  is  well  known  to  the 
nightingales  and  the  lindens,  a  German  lover  will  pursue  an 
ardent  courtship  through  a  dozen  years  without  daring  once 
to  put  an  arm  around  his  divinity's  waist.  Art  and  love  are 
a  great  patience  in  Germany. 

They  were  surely  so  in  the  case  of  Richard  Wagner;  and 
it  is  characteristic  of  the  Teuton,  that  he  has  left  the  world 
in  doubt  as  to  whether  his  patience  was  ever  rewarded. 

The  doubt  is  indeed  the  chief  provocation  of  these  letters 
(outside  of  Germany),  and  furnishes  the  artistic  motive  by 
which  they  will  endure. 

Or,  to  put  the  matter  plainly,  the  other  man's  wife  sup 
plies  the  interest  of  this  book.  As  of  many  others  in  the 
biography  of  greatness. 

Think  you  had  these  letters  been  addressed  to  Frau  Wag 
ner,  that  all  the  chaste  nightingales  of  Germany  would  now 
be  tuning  in  their  praise?  Or  that  our  own  sentimentalists, 
with  the  unsexed  Corybantes  of  music,  would  be  swelling 
such  a  chorus  of  acclaim?  Would  the  world  be  eager  to 
identify  Frau  Wagner  with  the  conception  of  "Isolde,"  and 


RICHARD  WAGNER'S  ROMANCE  39 

should  we  be  hearing  all  this  patter  about  ideal  union  of 
souls,  spiritual  passion,  etc.,  etc.?  Not  so! — the  world  will 
not  tolerate  the  indecency  of  a  man  of  genius  loving  his  wife 
and  personifying  her  in  the  creations  of  his  art. 

There  is  not  a  single  truly  famous  book  in  the  world's  lit 
erature,  of  letters  written  by  a  man  of  genius  to  his  wife. 

The  letters  are  always  written  to>  some  other  woman  and, 
preferably,  some  other  man's  wife.  Why  this  should  be  so, 
only  the  good  Lord  knows  who  made  us  as  we  are. 

Poor  Penelope  keeps  house,  often  red-eyed  and  sad,  during 
the  excursions  of  genius;  she  treasures  up  with  a  brokenr 
hearted  care  and  stores  away  in  a  lavender-scented  drawer 
with  the  early  love-letters  (of  which  the  genius  is  now 
ashamed)  curt  messages  on  postal  cards — hurry-up  requests 
for  clean  linen  or  an  extra  "nighty" ;  express  tags  speaking 
eloquently  of  some  cheap  gift  by  which  the  great  man  dis 
charged  the  obligation  of  writing  (  preserved  by  the  simple 
soul  because  he  had  scrawled  her  name  upon,  them)  ;  and 
perhaps  a  small  packet  of  letters  that  deal  wholly  with  his 
ideas  of  domestic  government,  usually  couched  in  a  peevish 
tone  and  with  a  hard  selfishness  of  intention  that  strangely 
contrasts  with  the  man's  meditated,  public  revelation  of  self 
— not  a  flower  of  the  heart  in  them  all,  as  poor  Penelope, 
starving  for  a  word  of  love,  sees  through  her  dropping  tears. 

Now  these  things  have  some  value  to  a  neglected  wife,  but 
they  can  not  usefully  be  worked  up  in  the  biography  of  a  man 
of  genius. 

What  wonder  that  Penelope  takes  into'  her  tender  bosom 
the  subtle  demon  of  jealously,  becomes  a  shrew  and  a  scold, 
and  presently — goaded  by  the  man's  cold  and  steady  refusal 
to  satisfy  her  by  giving  her  the  love  which  she  knows  with 
a  woman's  sure  instinct  is  being  secretly  lavished  upon  anoth 
er — what  wonder,  I  say,  that  Penelope  under  such  madden 
ing  provocation,  finding  herself  a  cheated  and  unloved  wife, 


40  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

becomes  that  favorite  handiwork  of  the  Devil  on  this  earth 
— a  good  woman  turned  into  a  Fury ! 

And  the  beauty  of  it  is  that  at  this  moment  she  sets  out  to 
justify,  in  the  wrong-headed  fashion  of  a  woman  who  knows 
that  she  can  take  her  marriage  certificate  to  Heaven  with 
her, — the  infidelity  of  her  husband. 

He,  being  a  man  of  genius,  easily  gets  the  sympathy  of  the 
world — especially  of  all  good  and  virtuous  women,  every 
one  of  whom  feels  that  she  would  have  been  able  to  satisfy 
the  gifted  person  and  keep  him  properly  straight.  And  the 
great  man  adds  to  the  laurel  of  fame  the  crown  of  domestic 
martyrdom. 

Of  course,  the  injured  wife  might  have  played  her  game 
better,  but  it  was  not  in  the  cards  for  her  to  win, — having 
married  a  genius. 


So  it  has  come  to  be  an  axiom  that  the  artistic  tempera 
ment  disqualifies  a  man  for  the  sober  state  of  matrimony; 
and  many  are  the  cases  cited  to  prove  it,  from  the  wife  of 
Socrates  to  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle  or  Frau  Wagner.  The  woes 
of  the  unhappily  mated  genius  clamor  down  the  ages  like 
the  harsh  echoes  of  a  family  row  before  the  policeman 
reaches  the  corner.  Also  they  make  a  large  figure  in  what  is 
called  polite  literature,  especially  as  the  sorely  tried  genius 
finds  in  the  sorrows  of  his  hearth  a  strong  incentive  to  the 
production  of  copy.  Hence  the  thing  is  not  without  its  com 
pensations,  and  the  lovers  of  gossip,  who  are  always  the 
chief  patrons  of  literature,  do  not  seek  their  food  in  vain. 

I  suspect  that  the  matter  of  vanity  has  much  to  do  with 
cooking  the  domestic  troubles — his  word  is  "tragedy"  ! — of 
the  genius.  It  is  very  hard  to  domesticate  the  species,  and 
wonderful  is  the  arrogance  which  the -notion  of  genius  will 
breed  in  the  homeliest  man,  causing  him  to  look  with  easy 
contempt  on  the  beautiful  woman  who  perhaps  married  him 


RICHARD  WAGNER'S  ROMANCE  41 

out  of  pity.  The  artist  is  the  peacock  among  husbands — his 
lofty  soul,  his  majestic  port,  his  rainbow  plumage  and  even, 
as  he  thinks,  the  beauty  of  his  voice — that  top  note  especial 
ly! — move  him  to  a  measureless  disdain  of  the  annoyingly 
constant,  unvaried  and  tiresome  hero-worship  of  his  plain 
little  mate — it  is  quite  curious  how  after  a  time  he  can  not 
see  her  beauty.  To  be  sure,  she  has  her  home  uses,  and  very 
convenient  at  times  they  are,  even  to  the  most  glorious  of 
peacocks ;  but  he  is  for  the  Cosmos  and  must  not  limit  his  re 
splendency  to  a  narrow  poultry-yard — go  to,  woman!  And 
there  you  are. 

Then,  of  course,  the  artist  must  be  always  in  quest  of  new 
sensations, — in  other  words,  must  feed  his  genius,  to  which 
satiety  is  death;  and  it  seems  to  be  agreed  that  such  sensa 
tions  and  experiences  are  only  to  be  had  from  other  women, 
or  at  least,  some  other  woman — and  how  are  you  going  to 
get  away  from  that? 

I  have  heard  of  a  certain  man,  of  coarse  fibre,  who  would 
have  given  his  soul  to  be  thought  an  artist;  who  plotted 
asleep  and  awake,  during  long  years,  to  get  rid  of  his  law 
ful  wife  and  take  on  a  woman  he  believed  to  be  his  affinity. 
The  man's  passionate  desire  to  work  this  wrong  gave  him 
a  kind  of  power  and  eloquence  which,  strange  to  say,  failed 
him  when  at  last  he  had  succeeded  in  carrying  out  his  pur 
pose.  And  then,  so  the  gossip  ran,  he  wished  to  win  the  old 
love  back  again  (coupled  in  his  memory  with  both  unrest 
and  power),  but  that,  of  course,  was  hopeless;  so  that  verily 
the  last  state  of  this  man  was  worse  than  the  first. 

All  of  which  is  not  without  bearing  upon  the  story  of  Rich 
ard  Wagner  and  Mathilde  Wesendonck. 

I  am  not  concerned  to  upset  the  Platonic  theory,  so  dear 
to  German  sentimentalists,  of  the  love-affair  between  the 
great  Wagner  and  the  wife  of  Herr  Wesendonck.  People 
will  judge  according  to  the  evidence  and  their  private  feel 
ings.  It  must  be  allowed  that  there  are  expressions  in  the 


42  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

letters  that  would  go  far  toward  establishing  a  crim.  con.  in 
the  case  of  any  but  a  German  like  Wagner  and  a  master 
sentimentalist  at  that.  Such  a  passage  as  this  for  example: 

"Once  more,  that  thou  couldst  hurl  thyself  on  every  con 
ceivable  sorrow  of  the  world  to  say  to  me,  'I  love  thee,'  re 
deemed  me  and  won  for  me  that  'solemn  pause'  whence  my 
life  has  gained  another  meaning. 

"But  that  state  divine  indeed  was  only  to  be  won  at  cost 
of  all  the  griefs  and  pains  of  love — we  have  drunk  them  to 
their  very  dregs!  And  now,  after  suffering  every  sorrow,  be 
ing  spared  no  grief,  now  must  the  quick  of  that  higher  life 
show  clear  what  we  have  won  through  all  the  agony  of  those 
birth-throes." 

I  repeat,  only  a  German  sentimentalist  could  hold  such 
language  without  compelling  an  obvious  conclusion.  The 
fact  that  in  the  face  of  this  and  similarly  passionate  avowals, 
public  opinion  in  Germany  absolves  the  lovers  of  any  posi 
tive  guilt  in  their  relations,  is  a  high  tribute  to  that  national 
virtue  which  was  anciently  celebrated  by  Tacitus  and  more 
recently  by  Heinrich  Heine. 

It  is  the  greater  pity  that  the  English  translation  should 
have  been  made  by  a  gushing,  lymphatic  person,  one  W. 
Ashton  Ellis,  who  instead  of  suffering  the  letters  to  speak 
for  themselves,  writes  me  a  sloppy  preface  wherein  he  seeks 
to  clear  Frau  Wesendonck's  character,  in  advance,  and  there 
by  naturally  awakens  the  reader's  doubts.  I  protest  but  for 
this  marplot  fellow  I  should  have  set  it  all  down  to<  the  ac 
count  of  German  sentimentalism  and  have  laid  the  book 
aside  without  hearing  anything  worse  than  the  nightingale  in 
the  linden,  pouring  forth  his  soul  in  the  enchanted  moonlight 
of  German  poesy.  But  now  it  is  spoiled  for  me  by  such 
twaddle  as  this : 

"This  placid,  sweet  Madonna,  the  perfect  emblem  of  a 
pearl,  not  opal,  her  eyes  still  dreaming  of  Nirvana, — no!  em 
phatically  no !  she  could  not  once  have  been  swayed  by  car- 


RICHARD  WAGNER'S  ROMANCE  43 

nal  passion.  In  these  letters  all  is  pure  and  spiritual,  a  Dante 
and  a  Beatrice;  so  must  it  have  been  in  their  intercourse." 

This  illustrates  how  the  defense  is  so  often  fatal  in  mat 
ters  of  literary  biography.  And  yet  I  have  not  heard  of  a 
literary  man  wise  enough  to  ask  that  neither  his  memory  nor 
his  acts  should  ever  be  defended. 

Many  a  small  person  contrives  to  attract  a  moment's  no 
tice  by  defending  the  silent  great. 

Fame  has  no  more  subtle  irony. 


Richard  Wagner  met  Mathilde  Wesendonck  in  1852 
when  he  was  forty  years  old  and  she  twenty-four.  He  had  al 
ready  written  "Rienzi,"  uThe  Flying  Dutchman,"  "Tann- 
hauser"  and  "Lohengrin."  Nobody  has  ever  dreamed  of  at 
tributing  the  inspiration  of  any  of  these  works  to  his  wife 
Minna. 

It  is  seldom  indeed  that  a  woman  is  credited  with  inspiring 
a  man  of  genius — after  she  has  married  him.  As  a  literary 
theory  the  thing  is  not  popular. 

Wagner's  wife  had  been  an  opera  singer.  It  is  admitted 
even  by  the  great  man's  jealous  biographers,  that  she  was  of 
more  than  ordinary  beauty,  that  she  shared  bravely  his  early 
hardships  and  that  she  was  a  pure  and  loyal  wife. 

But  it  seems  certain  that  she  did  not  inspire  the  great  man. 
In  his  later  life  he  was  wont  to  say  that  his  wedlock  had  been 
nothing  but  a  trial  of  his  patience  and  pity;  perhaps  he  was 
indebted  for  this  to  his  vanity  rather  than  his  recollection. 

Mathilde,  on  the  contrary,  was  Wagner's  inspiration,  for 
has  he  not  told  us  so  ? — though  to  be  sure  we  may  credit  her 
with  inspiring  only  one  opera,  "Tristan  and  Isolde."  Un 
fortunately,  she  was  the  wife  of  another  man,  but  again  fort 
unately,  her  husband  was  of  a  truly  Germanic  simplicity  and 
child-like  trust. 

Herr  Wesendonck  was  also  a  man  of  means  and  could 


44  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

give  his  wife  the  indulgence  of  many  luxuries  and  whims, 
which  must  have  added  to  her  attractiveness  in  the  eyes  of 
the  struggling  man  of  genius.  Money  has  never  been  known 
to  cheapen  the  charms  of  a  really  desirable  woman. 

Portraits  of  Mathilde  show  a  Madonna-like  face  of  pure 
and  delicate  outline,  with  eyes  of  haunting  tenderness  and  a 
mouth  of  sensitive  appeal — such  lips,  so  sweet  yet  sad,  so  in 
viting  yet  so  free  from  sensual  suggestion,  are  seen  only 
among  the  higher  types  of  German  beauty.  Not,  I  grant 
you,  a  face  indicating  carnal  passion,  but  what  then? — many 
a  woman  who  looked  like  a  Madonna  has  loved  not  wisely 
but  too  well,  and  some  have  been  known  to  bear  children  in 
the  human  fashion. 

I  have  never  seen  a  portrait  of  Herr  Wesendonck. 

Truly  he  deserves  one  for  consenting  to  the  romance  which 
has  immortalized  his  name.  Wagner  seems  to  have  felt  this 
when  he  once  wrote  Herr  Wesendonck  that  the  latter  should 
have  a  place  with  him  in  the  history  of  art.  In  this  letter 
Wagner  says  nothing  of  the  fine  set  of  horns  which  (outside 
of  Germany)  an  evil-minded  generation  has  freely  awarded 
his  generous  friend. 

Mark  here  again  the  gushing  Ellis: — 

"It  is  as  a  knightly  figure  that  he  (Herr Wesendonck)  will 
ever  abide  in  the  memory  of  all  who  met  him,  and  surely  tru 
er  knightliness  than  he  displayed  in  a  singularly  difficult  con 
juncture,  can  nowhere  have  been  found  outside  King  Ar 
thur's  court.  Undoubtedly  it  was  he  who  was  the  greatest 
sufferer  for  several  years, — by  no  means  Minna, — years  of 
perpetual  heart-burnings  bravely  borne." 

Herr  Wesendonck  was  indeed  a  pattern  husband  for  a 
young  woman  of  romantic  yearnings. 

He  shared  her  admiration  for  Wagner's  genius  and  for  a 
long  time  refused  to  see  that  his  wife  was  actuated  by  any 
other  motive. 

He  gave  Wagner  financial  aid  and  finally  offered  him, 


RICHARD  WAGNER'S  ROMANCE  45 

with  Minna,  a  home  in  a  pretty  cottage  on  his  estate  at  Zu 
rich. 

He  tolerated  the  connection  even  after  it  had  become  the 
occasion  of  bitter  quarrels  on  his  domestic  hearth. 

On  the  whole,  I  am  persuaded  that  a  figure  of  like  chival 
ry  is  not  to  be  found  outside  of  Germany,  nor  perhaps  any 
where  since  the  noble  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Countenance. 

Mathilde's  few  letters  tell  us  nothing — her  soul  is  never 
unveiled — she  compels  us  to  take  Wagner's  word  for  the 
whole  of  the  romance.  Her  attitude  in  this  correspondence 
— if  such  it  may  be  called — puts  the  great  man  in  a  dubious 
light.  We  may  not  think  the  less  of  the  artist,  but  the  man 
loses  nobility;  Herr  Wesendonck  gets  his  revenge. 

But  at  last  Minna  intercepted  one  of  Wagner's  letters  to 
Mathilde  (which  is  not  given  in  this  collection),  and  deliv 
ered  it  herself,  with  words  suiting  the  occasion.  Naturally, 
this  broke  up  the  arrangements  at  Zurich;  Wagner  sent  his 
wife  back  to  her  parents  and  betook  himself  to  Venice.  Herr 
Wesendonck's  conduct  in  the  circumstances  was  without  a 
flaw :  this  admirable  man  seems  truly  worthy  both  of  Ger 
many  and  Spain. 


There  is  a  harmless  mania  for  identifying  particular  per 
sons  with  poetic  creations,  and  with  such  hints  as  Wagner 
constantly  threw  out  during  the  period  of  their  attachment,  it 
was  impossible  that  Mathilde  should  escape. 

"With  thee  I  can  do  all  things,"  he  says,  "without  thee, 
nothing!" 

This  was  not  strictly  true,  however,  and  must  be  taken  as 
a  poetic  license,  since  he  wrote  several  operas  before  meet 
ing  her  and  did  some  of  his  greatest  work  long  after  the 
parting. 

But  let  me  not  discourage  the  sentimentalists.     It  is  true 


46  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

that  he  said,  "For  having  written  the  Tristan7  I  thank  you 
from  my  deepest  soul  to  all  eternity." 

It  is  also  certain  that  he  used  to  write  his  music  with  a  gold 
pen  that  Mathilde  had  given  him,  and  that  in  exile  he  re 
ceived  from  her  a  package  of  his  favorite  zwieback  with 
tears  of  joy.  For  these  and  other  reasons  I  would  not  deny 
her  title  to  be  regarded  as  the  original  inspiration  of  "Tris 
tan  and  Isolde." 

Still,  we  have  all  heard  of  another  enamored  young  person 
who,  when  her  lover  had  got  himself  somewhat  desperately 
out  of  the  way — 

"Went  on  eating  bread  and  butter." 

Absence,  it  appears,  had  some  effect  in  cooling  the  roman 
tic  fervors  of  Mathilde.  Some  half-dozen  years  after  the  rup 
ture  at  Zurich,  "Tristan  and  Isolde,"  that  "child  of  our  sor 
rows,"  as  Wagner  lovingly  wrote  her  and  to  which  her  name 
for  good  or  evil  is  now  linked  forever,  was  produced  for  the 
first  time  in  Munich. 

Mathilde  had  the  earliest  invitation,  with  the  composer's 
own  compliments;  but  she  did  not  attend,  and  the  heart  of 
Minna  was  not  harrowed  by  seeing  her  name  "among  those 
present." 

It  is  no  reproach  to  the  nightingales  of  Germany  that  they 
sang  longer  in  the  heart  of  her  lover.  .  .  . 

And  the  lindens  bloom  on  immortally. 


Saint  JYLarh, 


E-ENTER  the  Sieur  de  Conte !     .     . 

Our  gallant  old  friend  makes  as  knightly  a 
show  as  of  yore  when  first  he  rode  into  the  lists 
and  pledged  his  fealty  to  the  stainless  Maid. 
But  alas !  his  hair  that  rivaled  the  raven's  wing 
for  blackness,  is  now  white  as  carded  wool.  Yet  has  that 
eye  lost  nothing  of  its  old  fire  and  the  years  have  but  fetched 
new  strength  and  cunning  to  his  hand.  And  methinks  the 
Sieur  fights  with  a  tempered  skill  and  a  wary  shrewdness 
that  were  not  always  his  in  the  old  days — by  my  halidom,  I 
would  not  care  to  be  the  Holy  Council  at  Rome  with  such 
a  champion  pitted  against  me!  For  indeed  the  Holy  Council 
may  pow-wow  as  long  or  as  short  as  may  please  their  holi- 
nesses — the  world  at  the  challenge  of  the  Sieur  de  Conte, 
has  awarded  the  crown  of  saintship  to  Joan  of  Arc.  The 
living  voice,  the  magic  pen  of  the  Sieur  de  Conte  are  worth 
all  their  musty  raking  from  the  past;  are  more  than  worth 
their  pretended  authority  to  decide  the  question.  If  the  Holy 
Fathers  have  dropped  the  matter  for  the  nonce,  as  rumor 
now  declares,  they  have  but  done  the  thing  that  might  have 
been  expected  of  them.  The  Ch  if*ch  is  ever  too  wise  to  in 
vite  defeat,  too  politic  to  issue  a  ..sad-letter,  too  strong  in 
its  divine  right  to  surrender  on  heretic  compulsion.  Besides, 
it  is  here  to  stay  forever;  and  shall  it  be  moved  for  a  chit  of  a 
girl  who  has  been  dead  only  a  matter  of  five  hundred  years  ? 
-Tut,  tut, — there  is  always  plenty  of  time ! 

The  Sieur  de  Conte  (otherwise  Mark  Twain)  in  all  that 
he  has  written  on  the  subject,  has  failed  to  point  out  one  ex 
traordinary  fact  with  regard  to  Joan  of  Arc.  I  am  glad  that 
he  has  left  it  to  me.  It  is  this:  Since  that  fearful  day  in 


48  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

Rouen  when  she  was  led  to  her  martyrdom  by  fire,  she  has 
been  the  glory  of  the  faith  and  the  shame  of  the  Church. 
That  is  why  she  has  waited  so  long  for  the  formal  warrant 
of  saintship.  That  is  why  the  Devil's  Advocate  has  so  far 
prevailed  to  deny  her  on  earth  the  crown  she  wears  in  Heav 
en.  That  is  why  the  Church,  unless  moved  to  it  by  political 
reasons,  will  not  canonize  her. 

Do  not  think  this  a  musty  old  question  which  interests 
only  a  few  droning  priests  sitting  in  a  back  room  of  the  Vat 
ican,  and  here  and  there  a  poetic  idealist  like  the  Sieur  de 
Conte.  By  no  means ! — it  is  a  question  as  vital  as  the  fame 
of  the  Maid  herself,  calling  forth  champions  and  antagonists 
in  every  age.  It  is  a  plague-sore  in  the  side  of  the  Church — 
put  your  finger  there !  It  never  has  been  settled  because  it 
never  could  and  never  can  be  settled  to  the  credit  of  the 
Church.  Also  I  believe  it  is  bound  up  with  the  eternal  ques 
tion  of  liberty,  in  whose  holy  cause  the  Maid  fought  and  suf 
fered. 

Joan  of  Arc  was  done  to  death  by  the  priests  and  theolo 
gians  of  the  day,  urged  on  by  the  civil  power  in  the  hands  of 
her  French  and  English  enemies.  I  am  aware  that  her 
death  is  not  chargeable,  in  a  direct  sense,  to  the  Church, 
and  it  is  deemed  likely  by  Lamartine  that  she  would  have 
been  saved  had  she  known  enough  to  appeal  directly  to 
Rome.  I  am  aware  that,  short  of  canonization,  the  Church 
has  done  what  it  could  to  make  amends  to  the  memory  of 
Joan  of  Arc.  To  give  h  :he  crown  of  saintship  now,  would 
not  restore  the  credit  of  the  Church,  but  would  rather  irre 
parably  damage  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  For  the  two  or 
three  hundred  priests  and  theologians  who  judged  the  Maid, 
as  well  as  the  godly  men  of  the  Inquisition  of  Paris  who 
damned  her  as  a  child  of  the  Devil,  were  in  loyal  communion 
with  the  Church  and  were,  in  fact,  part  of  its  machinery. 
Still,  it  is  certain  that  the  Church,  in  its  true  representative 
and  executive  character,  did  not  incur  the  guilt  and  odium  of 


SAINT  MARK  49 

Joan's  death.  But  the  whole  system  arrogating  divine  pow 
ers  and  claiming  the  right  to  draw  supernatural  warrants, 
was  involved  in  the  trial  and  murder  of  the  Maid;  was 
judged  by  the  measure  with  which  it  meted  to  her;  and  is 
now  of  a  truth  dead  forever  to  the  more  enlightened  part  of 
mankind.  The  blood  of  the  martyrs  is  the  seed  of  liberty ! 

A  certain  set  of  apologists  on  behalf  of  the  Church  try  to 
cast  all  the  blame  of  Joan's  persecution  and  death  on  the 
English.  To  be  sure,  the  English  had  the  best  right  to  hate 
her  and  to  seek  her  destruction,  for  had  she  not  beaten  them 
in  many  battles  and  all  but  driven  them  out  of  the  fair  land 
of  France,  which  they  had  come  to  regard  as  their  own  ?  But 
let  us  be  fair;  her  own  countrymen  shared  to  the  full  in  the 
guilt  and  the  shame  of  her  death — nothing  can  clear  them  of 
that!  Besides,  we  are  not  to  forget  that  both  French  and 
English  were  in  that  day  of  the  same  religious  faith.  Not  a 
single  heretic  took  part  in  the  proceedings  against  Joan, 
from  the  holy  clerics  of  the  Inquisition  of  Paris  who  pro- 
nounced  anathema  upon  her,  to  Bishop  Cauchon,  that  zeal 
ous  prototype  of  Fouquier  Tinville,  who  sought  her  blood 
openly  and  thirsted  for  it  with  an  eager  relish  that  shocked 
even  his  fellow  judges ;  or  the  rude  soldiers  who*  kept  guard 
within  her  cell  and  probably  caused  her  as  much  anguish, 
at  times,  as  the  threat  of  the  fire.  They  were  all  children  of 
the  One  True  Faith,  and  the  stain  of  her  innocent  blood  is 
upon  every  one  of  them,  French  and  English.  Make  no  mis 
take  about  that ! 

Indeed,  we  can  not  go  astray  as  to  the  facts,  and  these 
themselves  can  not  be  twisted  to  the  purpose  of  special 
pleading;  for  the  whole  plan  of  the  murder  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
the  carefully  marked  steps  by  which  it  was  relentlessly  car 
ried  out,  the  heroic  but  ineffectual  struggles  of  the  victim, 
the  unspeakable  devices  resorted  to,  in  order  to  circumvent 
and  destroy  her,  the  pitiless,  unhalting  purpose  of  her  pros 
ecutors,  marked  as  with  a  pencil  of  red, — are  laid  bare  to  us, 


50  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

by  the  sworn  testimony  of  eye-witnesses,  with  a  fulness  of 
detail  and  a  veracity  of  statement  which  leave  hardly  a  ques 
tion  to  be  asked  or  a  doubt  to  be  solved.  It  is  all  there — the 
conspiracy  of  power,  learning  and  holiness  (God  save  the 
mark!)  against  one  helpless,  ignorant,  innocent  girl.  We  see 
the  suavely  ferocious  Cauchon  pressing  her  with  both  his 
holy  hands  toward  the  scaffold — he  was  excommunicated 
some  years  afterward,  but  it  didn't  save  the  Church's  credit. 
We  see  that  formidable  array  of  priests  setting  the  utmost 
skill  of  their  wits,  the  deepest  resources  of  their  cunning, 
against  a  simple  country  girl  who  could  neither  read  or 
write  a  name  which  is  now  one  of  the  best  known  on  the 
earth;  trying  by  every  art  of  casuistry  to  wrest  or  surprise 
from  her  an  admission  that  should  send  her  to  the  flames. 

Let  us  be  just:  they  were  not  all  equally  guilty,  not  all 
equally  intent  on  the  slaughter  of  the  innocent  lamb  before 
them.  Not  one  was  as  bad  as  the  monster  Cauchon,  and 
to  be  strictly  fair  even  to  that  consecrated  beast,  not  one  had 
Cauchon's  motive — but  the  fact  does  not  save  the  Church's 
credit.  Some  of  these  priests  had  kind  hearts  and  would 
gladly  have  sent  the  child  home  to  her  mother;  but  they 
lacked  the  power.  Besides,  they  were  captives  themselves, 
bound  hand  and  foot  with  the  fetters  of  superstition  and 
devil-born  lunacy,  misnamed  religious  fervor;  daunted  by 
monstrous  ignorance,  and  mythic  fears  of  hell  and  darkness, 
chrisomed  and  holy-watered  into  a  pretence  of  light  and 
knowledge — aye,  they  were  cowering  slaves,  branded  and 
obedient  to  the  lash,  and  she  standing  free  and  enfranchised 
in  her  chains ! 

Though  I  am  the  first  to  call  attention  to  the  matter,  there 
are  many  points  of  likeness  between  the  trial  of  Jesus  Christ 
and  the  trial  of  Joan  of  Art.  They  were  both  sold  for  a 
price  of  silver.  Both  were  martyrs  of  liberty.  Both  perished 
through  a  combination  of  forces  political  and  priestly. 
Christ  had  Caiaphas;  Joan  had  Cauchon,  something  the 


SAINT  MARK  51 

worst  of  it.  The  chief  accusers,  the  head  prosecutors  of  each 
were  priests,  and  as  the  Jews  cried  out  at  the  trial  of  Jesus, 
"His  blood  be  upon  us  and  upon  our  children!" — so  might 
the  priests  have  cried  out  at  the  condemnation  of  Joan,  "Her 
blood  be  upon  us  and  upon  the  Church!"  It  is  there  yet— 
the  excommunication  of  Cauchon  and  the  reversal  of  the 
Judgment  have  not  removed  it.  Something  more  will  have  to 
be  done  ere  that  Great  Wrong  can  be  righted. 

But  having  shown  the  great  similarity  marking  the  trials  of 
Jesus  Christ  and  Joan  of  Arc,  I  now  wish  to  call  attention  to 
a  most  striking  point  of  unlikeness,  which  is  even  more  sug 
gestive  than  the  resemblance  shown.  It  is  this :  among  the 
judges  of  Joan  of  Arc — priests  as  they  were  or  deemed  them 
selves  to  be,  of  the  Christ  of  love  and  mercy — there  was  none 
so  merciful  as  Pontius  Pilate,  whose  memory  is  not  held  in 
much  honor  by  the  Christian  world;  not  one  had  the  cour 
age  or  the  humanity  to  wash  his  hands  of  the  intended 
murder.  Some  desired  it  out  of  their  blind  ignorance  and 
cruel  fanaticism ;  many  no  doubt  regretted  it,  as  a  severe  but 
salutary  act  of  faith ;  all  consented  to  it !  The  responsibility 
is  thus  landed  squarely  where  it  belongs,  on  the  official  reli 
gion  which  was  then  in  league  with  the  secular  arm.  If  there 
had  been  the  least  available  doubt  as  to  that — if  the  damning 
record  were  not  in  black  and  white,  attested  by  the  solemn 
oaths  of  so  many  witnesses  of  or  participants  in  the  trial — 
the  Church  would  long  ago,  for  her  own  credit,  have  granted 
the  saintship  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  to-day  the  altars  of  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  would  flame  in  a  hundred  lands.  But 
perhaps,  since  the  Eternal  Church  does  not  count  years  as 
men  count  them,  it  is  yet  some  ages  too  soon  to  raise  an 
altar  to  the  Second  Great  Martyr  of  Liberty.  And  maybe 
this  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  Liberty  and  the  Maid,  for  on 
the  day  that  the  church  makes  Joan  of  Arc  wholly  her  own, 
on  that  day  she  will  step  down  from  the  unexampled  place 
she  has  so  long  held  in  the  love  and  pity  and  worship  of 


52  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

mankind.  Such  a  consummation  would  not,  I  am  sure,  be 
agreeable  to  her  leal  knight  and  devoted  champion,  the  Sieur 
de  Conte  Mark  Twain. 

In  the  wide  court  of  Heaven,  on  any  of  these  fine  days,  you 
may  see — if  God  has  given  you  sight  above  your  eyes — a 
Maid  who  has  been  a  maiden  now  during  full  five  hundred 
years.  Her  hair  is  the  color  of  the  corn-silk  at  harvest  time 
and  her  eyes  of  the  early  forget-me-not.  She  is  slender  as 
of  old  when,  clad  in  shining  armor  and  mounted  on  her  milk 
white  steed,  she  led  the  long  dispirited  warriors  of  France 
to  victory  or  upheld  her  wondrous  standard  at  the  corona 
tion  of  her  King.  Ofter  she  may  be  seen  leaning  over  the 
crystal  battlements,  chin  on  hand  and  looking  down  with 
pensive  gaze  on  France,  and  Orleans,  and  Domremy  and 
Rouen  whence  her  soul,  like  a  white  dove,  ascended  in  the 
flame  of  her  country's  cruel  ingratitude. 

But  sometimes  she  turns  her  glance  from  scenes  like  these, 
charged  with  sweet  and  terrible  memories,  and  looks  down 
with  loving  intentness  toward  a  certain  spot  on  earth  where 
an  old  white-haired  man  raises  eyes  of  love  and  almost  wor 
ship  to  hers.  They  see  and  salute  each  other — oh,  be  sure  of 
that !  The  old  man  was  many  years  younger  when  they  first 
became  acquainted,  but  the  Maid  is  always  the  same  age,  for 
they  grow  no  older  in  Heaven.  Who  shall  explain  the  spell 
(since  the  Sieur  de  Conte  will  not  confess  his  dreams) ,  that 
has  joined  in  a  perfect  love  and  understanding  these  two 
children  of  Nature,  separated  by  the  difference  of  race  and 
the  shoreless  gulf  of  five  hundred  years?  Who  can  but  won 
der  at  the  enchanting  touch  of  a  white  hand  from  out  the 
past  which  has  turned  the  bold  scoffer  and  jeerer,  the  wild 
man  of  the  river  and  the  mining  camps,  into  such  a  knight 
as  was  rarely  seen  in  the  most  gracious  days  of  chivalry? 
And  to  see  him  now,  when  he  should  be  taking  the  rest  he 
has  so  gloriously  earned,  still  eager  to  battle  in  her  cause, 
daring  the  world  to  the  onset,  fighting  for  her  with  the  pas- 


SAINT  MARK  53 

sionate  heart  of  youth,  pleading  for  her  with  a  burning  zeal, 
as  if  in  the  five  centuries  that  have  rolled  away  since  her 
death  no  other  cause  worthy  to  be  named  with  hers  has  ap 
pealed  to  the  award  of  sword  or  pen — to  see  this  rightly  and 
with  eyes  cleared  for  the  perception  of  that  Truth  which  is 
the  only  thing  really  precious  in  the  world,  is  to  rejoice  at  the 
finest  spectacle  that  has  been  given  to  the  wondering  eyes  of 
men  in  our  day. 

Whether  the  brave  old  knight  will  yet  win  the  whole  world 
over  to  her  side,  I  can  not  say,  though  I  think  he  will,  if  he  be 
given  time  enough;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  has  already  made 
sure  of  all  kind  and  feeling  hearts.  I  believe  his  devotion  to 
Joan  of  Arc  is  the  finest  and  most  ideal  poem  of  our  age — 
an  age,  to  be  sure,  which  has  known  too  little  poetry  and 
which  has  never  thought  of  looking  to  the  Sieur  de  Conte 
to  supply  it.  And  I  believe,  further,  that  the  Book  of  the 
Ideal  contains  the  story  of  no  love  more  pure  and  beautiful 
than  this  which  unites  the  Old  Man  and  the  Maid. 


Oscar  CCZitdc'9  Htonetmnt. 


T  HARDLY  seems  a  decade  since  the  disgrace, 
the  trial  and  sentence  of  Oscar  Wilde.  His  death 
followed  so  close  upon  his  punishment  as  to  give 
the  deepest  tragic  value  to  the  lesson  of  his  fall. 
There  was  in  truth  nothing  left  him  to  do  but 
die,  after  he  had  penned  the  most  poignantly  pathetic  poem 
and  the  most  strangely  moving  confession  (which  is  yet  a 
subtle  vindication)  that  have  been  given  to  the  world  since 
the  noon  of  Byron's  fame. 

Until  the  present  hour  the  world  has  withheld  its  pity  from 
that  tragedy,  as  complete  in  all  its  features  as  the  Greek  con 
science  would  have  exacted, — and  Oscar  Wilde  has  stood  be 
yond  the  pale  of  human  sympathy.  Only  seemed  to  stand, 
however,  for  there  are  many  signs  of  the  reaction,  the  better 
judgment  which  never  delays  long  behind  the  severest  con 
demnation  of  the  public  voice  when,  as  in  this  case,  the  cir 
cumstances  justify  an  appeal  to  the  higher  mercy  and  human 
ity. 

Socially,  Oscar  Wilde  was  executed,  and  for  a  brief  time  it 
seemed  as  if  his  name  would  stand  only  in  the  calendar  of 
the  infamous.  But  men  presently  remembered  that  he  was  a 
genius,  a  literary  artist  of  almost  unique  distinction  among 
English  writers,  a  wit  whose  talent  for  paradox  and  deli 
cately  perverse  fancy  had  yielded  the  world  a  pure  treasure 
of  delight.  In  the  first  hue  and  cry  of  his  disgrace,  the 
British  public — and  to  a  large  extent,  the  American  public 
also — had  taken  up  moral  cudgels  not  merely  against  the  man 
himself,  but  against  the  writer, — a  piece  of  ingratitude  for 
which  God  will  surely  punish  the  stupid  English.  His  plays 
were  withdrawn  from  the  theatres,  his  writings  from  the  libra- 


OSCAR  WILDE'S  ATONEMENT  55 

ries  and  book  stalls,  and  his  name  was  anathema  wherever 
British  respectability  wields  its  leaden  mace.  But  though  you 
can  pass  sentence  of  social  death  upon  a  man,  you  can  not 
execute  a  Book!  You  can  not  lay  your  hangman's  hands 
upon  an  Idea,  and  all  the  edicts  of  Philistinism  are  powerless 
against  it.  For  true  genius  is  the  rarest  and  most  precious 
thing  in  the  world,  and  God  has  wisely  ordained  that  the 
malice  or  stupidity  of  men  shall  not  destroy  it.  And  this  the 
world  sees  to  be  just,  when  it  has  had  time  to  weigh  the  mat 
ter,  as  in  the  present  instance. 

Oscar  Wilde  went  to  his  prison  with  the  burden  of  such 
shame  and  reprobation  as  has  never  been  laid  upon  a  literary 
man  of  equal  eminence.  Not  a  voice  was  raised  for  him — 
the  starkness  of  his  guilt  silenced  even  his  closest  friends  and 
warmest  admirers.  The  world  at  large  approved  of  his  pun 
ishment.  That  small  portion  of  the  world  which  is  loth  to 
see  the  suffering  of  any  sinner,  was  revolted  by  the  nature 
of  his  offense  and  turned  away  without  a  word;  the  sin  of 
Oscar  Wilde  claimed  no  charity  and  permitted  of  no  discus 
sion.  Had  his  crime  been  murder  itself,  his  fame  and  genius 
would  have  raised  up  defenders  on  every  hand.  As  it  was, 
all  mouths  were  stopped  and  the  man  went  broken-hearted 
to  his  doom. 

But  while  his  body  lay  in  prison,  the  children  of  his  mind 
pleaded  for  him,  and  such  is  the  invincible  appeal  of  genius, 
the  heart  of  the  world  began  to  be  troubled  in  despite  of  it 
self.  His  books  came  slowly  forth  from  their  hiding-places; 
his  name  was  restored  here  and  there  to  a  catalogue; 
a  little  emotion  of  pity  was  awakened  in  his  favor.  Then 
from  his  prison  cell  rose  a  cry  of  soul-anguish,  of  utter  pathos, 
of  supreme  expiation,  which  stirred  the  heart  of  pity  to  its 
depths.  The  feigner  was  at  last  believed  when  the  world 
had  made  sure  of  the  accents  of  his  agony  and  could  put  its 
finger  in  each  of  his  wounds.  Society  had  sentenced  this 
poet:  the  poet  both  sentenced  and  forgave  society,  in  the 


56  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

"Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol/'  thus  achieving  the  most  original 
paradox  of  his  fantastic  genius  and  throwing  about  his  shame 
something  of  the  halo  of  martyrdom.  He  did  more  than  this, 
in  the  judgment  of  his  fellow  artists — he  purchased  his  re 
demption  and  snatched  his  name  from  the  mire  of  infamy 
into  which  it  had  been  cast.  Strange  how  the  world  ap 
plauded  the  triumphant  genius  which  only  a  little  while  be 
fore  it  had  condemned  to  ignominy  and  silence ! 

The  utter  and  incredible  completeness  of  Wilde's  disgrace 
satisfies  the  artistic  sense,  which  is  never  content  with  half- 
results.  We  know  that  it  afforded  this  kind  of  satisfaction 
to  the  victim  himself,  exigent  of  artistic  effects  even  in  his 
catastrophe — and  the  proof  of  it  is  "De  Profundis." 

I  may  here  remark  that  the  virtuous  publishers,  both  in 
England  and  America,  who  are  quick  to  take  their  cue  from 
the  many-headed  beast,  are  now  making  amends  to  the  mem 
ory  of  poor  Wilde  in  their  fashion ;  that  is,  they  are  turning 
a  pretty  penny  by  the  sale  of  his  books,  most  of  which  cost 
them  nothing.  The  rage  of  contumely  is  changed  into  a 
furore  of  admiration  and  a  crescendo  of  regret.  To  some  of 
us  the  pawing  over  of  Wilde's  literary  remains  by  the  vulgar 
mob  and  the  present  indecent  enterprise  of  the  publishers, 
are  not  less  disgusting  than  the  conduct  of  both  parties  in 
the  hour  of  the  man's  calamity. 

uDe  Profundis"  will  take  rank  with  the  really  memorable 
human  documents.  It  is  a  true  cry  of  the  heart,  a  sincere 
utterance  of  the  spiritual  depths  of  this  man's  nature,  when 
the  angels  of  sorrow  had  troubled  the  pool.  The  only  thing 
that  seems  to  militate  against  its  acceptance  as  such,  is  the 
unfailing  presence  of  that  consummate  literary  art,  too  con 
scious  of  itself,  which,  as  in  all  the  author's  work  save  the 
"Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,"  draws  us  constantly  from  the 
substance  to  the  form.  Many  persons  of  critical  acumen  say 
they  can  not  see  the  penitent  for  the  artist.  The  texture  of 
the  sackcloth  is  too  exquisitely  wrought  and  is  too  mani- 


OSCAR  WILDE'S  ATONEMENT  57 

festly  of  the  loom  that  gave  us  "Dorian  Gray,"  "Salome," 
and  the  rest.  How  could  a  man  stricken  unto  death  with 
grief  and  shame  so  occupy  himself  with  the  vanity  of  style, — 
a  dilettante  even  in  the  hourwhen  fatewas  crushing  him  with 
its  heaviest  blows?  Does  not  this  wonderful  piece  of  work, 
lambent  with  all  the  rays  of  his  lawless  genius,  show  the  arti 
ficial  core  of  the  man  as  nothing  that  even  he  ever  did  before? 
And  what  is  the  spiritual  value  of  a  "confession"  which  is  so 
obviously  a  literary  tour  de  force;  in  which  the  plain  and  the 
simple  are  avoided  with  the  anxious  care  of  a  prince  of 
decadents  ? 

So  say,  or  seem  to  say,  the  critics.  For  myself,  I  can  ac 
cept  as  authentic  Wilde's  testament  of  sorrow,  even  though 
it  be  written  in  a  style  which  often  dazzles  with  beauty,  sur 
prises  with  paradox,  and  sometimes  intoxicates  with  the  rap 
ture  of  the  inevitable  artist.  He  could  not  teach  his  hand  to 
unlearn  its  cunning,  strive  as  he  might.  Like  Narcissus  won 
dering  at  his  own  beauty  in  the  fountain,  no  sooner  had  he 
begun  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  sorrow  than  the  loveliness  of  his 
words  seized  upon  him,  and  the  sorrow  that  found  such  ex 
pression  seemed  a  thing  almost  to  be  desired. 

So  when  Oscar  Wilde  took  up  the  pen  in  his  prison  solitude 
to  make  men  weep,  he  did  that  indeed,  but  too  soon  he  de 
lighted  them  as  of  yore.  Art,  his  adored  mistress,  whispered 
her  thrilling  consolations  to  the  poor  castaway — they  had 
taken  all  from  him, — liberty,  honor,  wealth,  fame,  mother, 
wife,  children,  and  shut  him  up  in  an  iron  hell,  but  by  God! 
they  should  not  take  her!  With  this  little  pen  in  hand  they 
were  all  under  his  feet, — solemn  judge,  stolid  jury,  the  beast 
of  many  heads  and  the  whited  British  Philistia.  Let  them 
come  on  now! — but  soft,  the  poet's  anger  is  gone  in  a  mo 
ment,  for  beauty,  faithful  to  one  who  had  loved  her  t'other 
side  o'  madness,  comes  and  fills  his  narrow  cell  with  her  ador 
able  presence,  bringing  the  glory  of  the  sweet  world  he  has 
lost, — the  breath  of  dawn,  the  scented  hush  of  summer  nights, 


58  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

the  peace  of  April  rains,  the  pageant  of  the  autumn  lands, 
the  changeful  wonder  of  the  sea.  Imagination  brushes  away 
his  bounds  of  stone  and  steel  to  give  him  all  her  largess  of 
the  past;  gracious  figures  of  poesy  and  romance  known  and 
loved  from  his  sinless  youth  (the  man  is  always  an  artist, 
but  you  see!  he  can  weep)  ;  the  elect  company  of  classic  ages 
to  whom  his  soul  does  reverence  and  who  seem  not  to  scorn 
him ;  the  fair  heroines  of  immortal  story  who  in  the  old  days, 
as  his  dreams  so  often  told  him,  had  deemed  him  worthy  of 
their  love — he  would  kneel  at  their  white  feet  now,  but  their 
sweet  glances  carry  no  rebuke;  the  kind  poets,  his  beloved 
masters  in  Apollo,  who  bend  upon  him  no  alienated  gaze; 
the  heroes,  the  sages  who  had  inspired  his  boyish  heart,  the 
sceptred  and  mighty  sons  of  genius  who  had  roused  in  him 
a  passion  for  fame — all  come  thronging  at  the  summons  of 
memory  and  fancy — a  far  dearer  and  better  world  than  that 
which  had  denied,  cursed  and  condemned  him,  and  which  he 
was  to  know  no  more. 

Then  last  of  all,  when  these  fair  and  noble  guests  were 
gone  and  the  glow  of  their  visitation  had  died  out  into  the 
old  bitter  loneliness  and  sorrow,  there  came  One  whose  smile 
had  the  brightness,  of  the  sun  and  the  seven  stars.  And  the 
poor  prisoner  of  sin  cast  himself  down  at  the  feet  of  the 
Presence  as  unworthy  to  look  upon  that  divine  radiancy,  and 
the  fountains  of  his  heart  were  broken  up  as  never  before. 
Yet  in  his  weeping  he  heard  a  Voice  which  said,  "Thy  sin 
and  sorrow  are  equal  and  thou  hast  still  but  a  little  way  to 
go.  Come!" 

Then  rose  up  the  sinner  and  fared  forth  of  the  spirit  with 
Christ  to  Emmaus. 

And  men  will  yet  say  that  the  words  which  the  sinner 
wrote  of  that  Vision  have  saved  his  soul  (that  soon  thereafter 
was  demanded  of  him)  and  sweetened  his  fame  forever.  But 
the  critics  who  forget  the  adjuration,  "Judge  not  lest  ye  be 


OSCAR  WILDE'S  ATONEMENT 


59 


judged,"  cry  out  that  the  sinner  is  never  to  be  trusted  in 
these  matters,  because  he  writes  so  well !  God,  however,  is 
kinder  than  men  or  critics.  He  will  forgive  the  poor  poet 
in  spite  of  his  beautiful  style. 


Children  of  the  Hge. 


HAVE  been  reading  the  "Last  Letters  of  Aubrey 
Beardsley."  A  strange  book,  full  of  a  sort  of 
macabre  interest.  Not  really  a  book,  and  yet 
peculiarly  suggestive  as  an  end-of-the-century 
document.  The  soul  of  Beardsley  here  exposed 
with  a  kind  of  abnormal  frankness  that  somehow  recalls  the 
very  style  of  art  by  which  he  shocked  and  captured  the 
world's  regard.  And  the  obvious  purpose  of  it  all,  to  show 
how  he  attained  peace  of  the  spirit  and  a  quiet  grave  in  his 
early  manhood. 

Poor  Beardsley  was  bitten  deep  with  the  malady  of  his  age 
— he  ranks  with  the  most  interesting,  though  not,  of  course, 
the  greatest  of  its  victims.  He  died  under  thirty  and  his 
name  is  known  to  thousands  who  know  nothing  of  his  art  nor 
perhaps  of  any  art  whatever.  To  very  many  his  name  stands 
as  a  symbol  of  degeneracy.  There  is  an  intimate  legend 
which  attaints  him  with  the  scarlet  sins  of  the  newer  hedonism. 
He  is  closely  associated  in  the  public  mind  with  the  most  trag 
ically  disgraced  literary  man  of  modern  times.  In  art  he 
was  a  lawless  genius,  but  a  genius  for  all  that,  else  the  world 
would  not  have  heard  so  much  of  him.  The  fact  that  counts 
is,  that  in  a  very  brief  life  he  did  much  striking  work  and  for 
a  time  at  least  gave  his  name  to  a  school  of  imitators. 
Whether  his  artistic  influence  was  for  good  or  evil,  does  not 
matter  in  this  view  of  him — let  the  professors  haggle  about 
that.  What  does  matter  is  the  fact  and  sum  of  his  accom 
plishment,  which  justifies  the  continued  interest  in  his  name. 
One  naturally  associates  with  Beardsley  other  ill-fated  vic 
tims  of  the  age,  such  as  Maupassant,  Bastien  Lepage,  Marie 
Bashkirtseff,  Oscar  Wilde,  Ernest  Dowson, — to  cite  no  more. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  AGE  61 

They  were  all  martyrs  of  their  own  talent,  and  martyrs  also 
of  that  ravaging  malady  of  the  heart,  that  devouring  casuis 
try,  so  peculiar  to  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
We  may  be  sure  the  disease  was  not  confined  to  a  few  persons 
of  extraordinary  talent — of  them  we  heard  only  because  of 
their  position  in  the  public  mind,  and  also*  because,  as  artists, 
they  were  bound  to  reveal  their  sufferings.  Nay,  we  were 
the  more  keenly  interested  in  their  painful  confessions,  know 
ing  that  they  spoke  for  many  condemned  to  bear  their  agon 
ies  in  silence.  For  the  world  will  soon  turn  away  from  an 
isolated  sufferer,  as  from  a  freak  on  the  operating  table — 
let  it  fear  or  recognize  the  disease  for  its  own  and  it  will 
never  weary  of  seeing  and  hearing.  This  commonplace  truth 
explains,  I  think,  the  great  and  continuing  interest  which  the 
persons  above  named  have  excited. 

All  of  these  were  unusually  gifted,  whether  as  artists  or 
writers,  and  all  strove  to  fulfill  their  talents  with  a  suicidal 
fury  of  application.  It  seemed  as  if  each  had  a  prescience 
of  early  death  and  labored  with  fatal  devotion  that  the 
world  might  not  lose  the  fruit  which  was  his  to  give.  Gen 
erous  sacrifice,  which  never  fails  to  mark  the  rarest  type  of 
genius.  Maupassant,  perhaps  the  most  gifted,  the  most  terri 
bly  in  earnest  of  all,  went  to  work  like  a  demoniac,  pouring 
forth  a  whole  literature  of  plays,  poems,  stories,  romances,  all 
in  the  space  of  ten  years.  Such  fecundity,  coupled  with  an 
artistic  practice  so  admirable  and  a  literary  conscience  so 
exacting,  was  never  before  witnessed  in  the  same  writer.  But 
the  world  presently  learned  a  greater  wonder  still — that  this 
unwearied  artist  had  in  those  ten  years  of  apparently  unre 
mitting  labor,  lived  a  life  that  was  not  less  full  of  romance, 
of  passion,  of  variety  and  excitement  than  the  creations  of  his 
brain.  He  had  accomplished  a  two-fold  suicide — in  life  and 
in  art. 

Maupassant  died  mad,  his  brain  worn  out  by  constant  pro 
duction,  his  heart  torn  by  the  malady  of  his  age,  which  we 


62  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

can  trace  in  so  many  pages  of  his  work.  But  at  least  he 
died  without  disgrace,  and  in  this  respect  his  fate  was  far 
happier  than  that  of  Oscar  Wilde,  his  contemporary  and 
equal  in  genius,  whose  brilliant  career  closed  in  the  darkest  in 
famy.  Poor  Wilde  sinned  greatly  no  doubt, — the  English 
courts  settled  that, — though  his  atonement  was  of  a  piece 
with  his  offending.  The  man  dies  but  the  artist  lives;  and 
Wilde  has  work  to  his  credit  which  will  surely  survive  the 
memory  of  his  tragic  shame. 

In  his  last  wretched  days  Wilde  turned  for  consolation  to 
the  Catholic  Church,  which,  with  a  deeper  knowledge  of 
human  nature  than  her  rivals  can  understand,  still  makes  the 
worst  sinner,  if  repentant,  her  peculiar  care.  Wilde  became 
a  Catholic  and  he  recorded  that  had  he  but  done  so  years 
before,  the  world  would  not  have  been  shocked  by  the  story 
of  his  disgrace.  This  is  less  a  truism  than  a  confession.  At 
any  rate,  one  is  not  sorry  to  know  that  the  poor,  broken 
hearted  wretch  found  sanctuary  at  the  last  and  died  peace 
fully  in  that  divine  hope  which  he  has  voiced  in  the  noblest 
of  his  poems. 

Like  Wilde,  Beardsley  became  a  Catholic  at  the  last  when 
he  was  under  sentence  of  death  from  consumption,  and  the 
"Letters"  are  addressed  to  a  worthy  Catholic  priest  who 
instructed  him  in  the  faith.  Beardsley  was  not  in  any  sense 
a  writer,  and  these  letters  were  obviously  written  in  perfect 
candor  and  with  no  thought  of  their  ever  meeting  any  eyes 
save  the  good  priest's  for  which  they- were  intended.  All  the 
same  they  are,  as  I  have  already  said,  curiously  interesting, 
and  they  do  not  lack  touches  of  genuine  insight  and  emotion. 
The  fantastic  artist  grew  very  sober  in  the  shadow  of  death, 
and  the  riot  of  sensuality  in  which  his  genius  had  formerly 
delighted,  was  clean  wiped  from  his  brain.  Wilde  himself, 
in  his  last  days  of  grace,  might  have  penned  this  sentence : 

"If  Heine  is  the  great  warning,  Pascal  is  the  great  example 
to  all  artists  and  thinkers.  He  understood  that  to  become  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  AGE  63 

Christian  the  man  of  letters  must  sacrifice  his  gifts,  just  as 
Magdalen  sacrificed  her  beauty." 

Strange  language,  this,  from  an  end-of-the-century  deca 
dent,  whose  achievement  in  art  was  that  he  had  carried 
one  step  farther  the  suggestions  of  the  wildest  sensualism. 
But  perhaps  it  was  not  the  same  Beardsley  who  made  the 
pictures  to  "Salome"  and  who,  through  the  most  original, 
creative  part  of  his  career,  worked  like  a  man  in  the  frenzy 
of  satyriasis.  No,  it  was  not  the  same  Beardsley — the  sentence 
of  premature  death  had  turned  Pan  into1  a  St.  Anthony. 

Not  long  after  penning  the  words  I  have  quoted,  Beards- 
ley  made  a  sacrifice  of  his  gifts  and  was  received  into  the 
Catholic  Church.  Within  a  year  thereafter  he  died.  There 
is  nothing  to  mar  the  moral  of  his  conversion  and  edifying 
change  of  heart,  except  the  reflection  that,  like  so  many  other 
eleventh-hour  penitents,  he  put  off  making  a  sacrifice  of  his 
gifts  until  he  had  no  further  use  for  them.  And  at  the  last, 
one  can't  help  thinking  that  if  Beardsley  had  not  made  some 
fearfully  immoral  pictures,  this  book,  with  the  highly  moral 
story  of  his  conversion,  would  not  have  been  put  before  the 
world.  .  .  . 

I  have  mentioned  Ernest  Dowson,  a  minor  poet,  the  singer 
of  a  few  exquisite  songs.  Less  talented  than  the  others,  yet  a 
true  child  of  the  age  and  stricken  at  the  heart  with  the  same 
malady,  Dowson  owes  his  fame  more  to  the  memorial  written 
by  his  friend  and  brother  poet,  Arthur  Symons,  than  to  his 
own  work,  which  in  bulk  is  of  the  slightest.  His  short  life 
was  frightfully  dissolute — Symons  speaks  of  his  drunken 
ness  with  a  kind  of  awe.  It  was  not  an  occasional  over-indul 
gence  with  comrades  of  his  own  stamp,  passing  the  bottle 
too  often  when  their  heads  grew  hot  and  their  tongues  loos 
ened  ;  it  was  not  the  solitary,  sodden  boozing  to  which  many 
hopeless  drunkards  are  addicted.  For  weeks  at  a  stretch 
Dowson  would  give  himself  up  to  a  debauch  with  the  refuse 
of  the  London  slums,  and  during  that  time  he  would  seem 


64  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

an  utterly  different  being,  with  scarcely  a  hint  of  his  normal 
self.  I  wish  some  one  would  explain  how  this  brutal  sottish- 
ness  can  co-exist  with  the  most  delicate  intellectual  sensibility, 
with  the  poet-soul.  We  have  had  many  explanations  of  the 
puzzle,  and  they  have  only  one  fault — they  do  not  explain. 

Dowson  left  us  little,  not  because  he  drank  much,  but 
because  he  could  rarely  satisfy  his  own  taste,  which  kept  him 
as  unhappy  in  a  literary  sense  as  his  conscience  did  in  a 
religious  one.  He  wrote  some  fine  sonnets  to  a  young  woman 
whose  mother  kept  a  cheap  eating-house: — she  married  the 
waiter.  The  genius  of  Beardsley  could  alone  have  done  jus 
tice  to  this  grotesque  romance. 

Like  Beardsley,  Dowson  died  a  Catholic — he  had  barely 
passed  thirty — but  unlike  Beardsley,  he  had  expected  to  do  so 
all  his  life,  for  he  was  born  in  the  faith.  Yet  the  faith  had 
not  saved  him  from  le  mal  du  siecle,  nor  had  it  kept  him 
from  the  foul  pit  of  debauchery.  What  it  did — and  this  was 
much — was  to  give  him  a  hope  at  the  end.  .  .  . 

Oh,  sad  children  of  the  age,  why  wait  so  long  before  com 
ing  to  your  Mother,  the  ancient  Church  ?  She  alone  can  heal 
your  cruel  wounds,  self-inflicted,  and  bind  up  your  bleeding 
hearts;  she  alone  can  succor  you;  she  alone  can  give  your 
troubled  spirit  rest  and  quiet  those  restless  brains  that  would 
be  asking,  asking  unto  madness.  See ! — she  has  balsam  and 
wine  for  your  wayfaring  in  this  world  and  something  that 
will  fortify  you  for  a  longer  journey.  Hear  ye  the  bells  call 
ing  the  happy  faithful  who  have  never  known  the  hell  of 
doubt;  hear  ye  the  organ  pealing  forth  its  jubilation  over  the 
Eternal  Sacrifice !  Come  into  the  great  House  of  God,  found 
ed  in  the  faith,  strong  with  the  strength,  sanctified  by  the 
prayer  and  warm  with  the  hope  of  twothousand  years.  Come, 
make  here  at  the  altar  a  sacrifice  of  your  poor  human  gifts 
and  exchange  them  for  undying  treasures.  Painter,  for  your 
bits  of  canvas,  the  glories  of  heaven;  poet,  for  your  best 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  AGE  65 

rhyme  the  songs  of  the  saved.  Come,  though  it  be  not  until 
the  last  hour — yet  come,  corne,  even  then ! 

Whether  the  old  Church  can  really  give  what  she  promises, 
I  know  not,  but  sure  am  I  that  men  will  go  on  believing  to  the 
,end.  For  faith  is  ever  more  attractive  than  unfaith,  and 
human  nature  craves  a  comfortable  heaven;  and,  after  all,  it 
takes  more  courage  to  die  in  the  new  scientific  theory  of  things 
than  in  the  simple  belief  of  the  saints.  And  alas!  the  cold 
affirmations  of  science  can  not  cure  nor  genius  itself  satisfy 
the  stricken  children  of  the  age. 


Che  Black  friar. 


Beware !  beware !  of  the  Black  Friar 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 

******* 

And  whether  for  good  or  whether  for  ill 

It  is  not  mine  to  say, 
But  still  to  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 

DON  JUAN. 


NE  may  wonder  what  my  Lord  Byron  in  the 
shades  thinks  of  his  noble  grandson's  perform 
ance  in  summoning  the  obscene  Furies  to  a  final 
desecration  of  his  grave.  Surely  the  ghouls  of 
scandal  that  find  their  congenial  food  in  the 
shrouds  of  the  illustrious  dead,  have  never  had  richer  quarry. 
True,  they  have  already  had  their  noses  at  the  scent  (through 
the  sweet  offices  of  an  American  authoress),  and  have  even 
picked  a  little  at  the  carrion ;  but  the  full  body-of-death  was 
never  before  delivered  to  them. 

This  point  has  been  clouded  over  in  the  public  discussion  of 
the  infamy.  It  should  be  made  clear  in  order  that  the  Earl  of 
Lovelace  may  receive  his  due  credit.  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe's  revelations  were,  of  course,  to  the  same  purport, 
but  they  were  based  on  the  unsupported  word  of  Lady  Byron 
and  some  very  free  readings  of  certain  passages  in  the  poet's 
works.  Everybody  was  shocked,  nobody  convinced.  Mrs. 
Stowe's  book  was  damned  by  universal  consent  and  with 
drawn  from  public  sale. 


THE  BLACK  FRIAR  67 

Lord  Lovelace  has  about  the  same  story  to  tell,  and  his 
revival  of  the  horrid  scandal  would  go  for  nought,  were  it 
not  that  he  is  himself  a  kind  of  witness  against  the  dead.  It 
would  be  foolish  to  deny  that  many  people  will  as  such  accept 
him.  There  is  nobody  now  living  to  share  or  dispute  his 
preeminence  in  shame.  Lord  Lovelace  should  have  a  por 
tion,  at  least,  of  the  burden  of  Orestes.  .  .  . 

Yes,  there  are  terrible  things  in  this  darkly  perplexed 
drama  of  the  house  of  Byron,  which  make  it  seem  like  a  mod 
ern  version  of  the  old  Greek  tragedy.  Look  at  the  figures  in 
it.  A  great  poet — among  the  very  greatest  of  his  race 
— beautiful  as  a  god,  born  to  the  highest  place,  the  spoiled 
darling  of  nature  and  of  fortune,  dazzling  the  world  with 
his  gifts,  drunk  himself  with  excess  of  power,  crowding  such 
emotion  and  enthusiasm,  such  vitality  and  passion,  such 
adventure  and  achievement,  such  a  fulness  of  productive 
power  within  the  short  span  of  a  life  cut  off  in  its  prime,  as 
have  never  marked  the  career  of  another  human  being. 
Never  have  men's  eyes  wonderingly  followed  so  splendid  and 
lawless  a  comet  in  the  sky  of  fame.  Never  was  man  loved 
more  passionately,  hated  more  bitterly,  admired  more  extrav 
agantly,  praised  more  wildly,  damned  more  deeply.  His 
quarrel  divided  the  world  into  armed  camps  which  still  main 
tain  their  hostile  lines.  He  was  the  Napoleon  of  the  intel 
lectual  world  and  bulked  as  large  as  the  Corsican,  with  whom 
indeed  he  shared  the  conquest  of  Europe.  And  by  Europe 
he  was  acclaimed  and  almost  deified  when  England  had  first 
exiled  and  later  denied  him  a  place  in  the  pantheon  of  her 
great. 

Never,  too,  were  great  faults  redeemed  by  grander  vir 
tues,  worthy  of  his  towering  genius — virtues  to  which  the 
eyes  of  those  who  loved  him  still  turned  with  shining  hope 
after  each  brief  eclipse  of  his  nobler  self,  as  when  the  sudden 
summer  storm  has  passed  over,  men  seek  the  sun.  Virtues 


68  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

which  drew  the  hatred  of  his  race  and  caste  and  have  left  his 
name  as  a  sword  and  a  burning  brand  in  the  world. 

Such  is  the  chief  actor  in  this  terrible  and  sinister  drama 
which  has  lately  been  unveiled  by  the  perfidy  of  the  heir  of  his 
blood — the  son  of  that  "Ada"  whom  his  verse  has  immortal 
ized.  The  remaining  characters  are  few,  which  is  also  fatally 
in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  Greek  tragedy.  For  the 
most  tremendous  dramas  of  the  flesh  and  the  spirit  do  not 
ask  a  crowd  of  performers ;  two  or  three  persons  will  suffice 
and  the  eternal  elements  of  love  and  hate. 

So  here  we  have,  besides  the  poet,  only  the  unloved  and 
unloving  wife,  who  meekly  discharged  her  bosom  of  its  long- 
festering  rancor  ere  she  left  the  world;  the  beloved — perhaps 
too  wildly  beloved — half-sister  of  the  poet,  whose  memory 
(in  spite  of  the  hideous  calumny  laid  upon  her)  is  like  a 
springing  fountain  of  bright  water  in  the  hot  desert  of  his 
life;  and,  lastly,  the  evil  grandson  in  whom  the  ancestral 
curses  of  the  house  of  Byron  have  found  a  terribly  fit  medium 
of  execution  and  vengeance.  It  seems  a  circumstance  of 
added  horror  that  this  parricidal  slanderer  should  be  a  hoary 
old  man,  while  the  world  can  not  imagine  Byron  save  as  he 
died,  in  the  glory  and  beauty  of  youth. 

What  madness  possessed  the  man?  Was  it  perhaps  the 
hoarded  rage  and  bitterness  of  many  years,  that  he  should 
have  been  compelled  to  live  his  long  life  without  fame  or 
notice,  in  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  name?  A  wild  enough 
theory,  but  such  extraordinary  madness  as  my  Lord  Love 
lace's  will  not  allow  of  sane  conjecture.  One  does  not  pick 
and  choose  his  hypotheses  in  Bedlam. 

That  my  Lord  Lovelace  is  mad  doth  sufficiently,  indeed 
overwhelmingly,  appear  from  his  part  in  this  shameful  and 
damnable  business ;  but  as  often  happens  in  cases  of  reasoning 
dementia,  the  truth  comes  out  rather  in  some  petty  detail 
than  in  the  general  conduct.  Thus,  at  the  outset,  he  orders 
his  charges  very  well  and  maintains  a  semblance  of  dignity 


THE  BLACK  FRIAR  69 

that  would  befit  a  worthier  matter.  One  is,  passingly,  almost 
tempted  to  believe  that  the  noble  lord  has  been  moved  to 
the  shocking  enterprise  by  a  compelling  sense  of  moral  and 
even  filial  obligation.  He  seems  to  speak  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger  and  comes  near  to  winning  our  sympathy,  if  not 
our  approval.  This  at  the  threshold  of  his  plea.  But  his 
malignity  soon  reveals  itself,  horrifying  and  disgusting  us, 
and  suddenly  the  detail  crops  up — the  little  thing  for  which 
intelligent  alienists  are  always  on  the  alert — and  losing  all 
control,  he  abandons  himself  to  the  utter  freedom  of  his 
hatred  and  his  madness.  I  refer  now  to  the  atrocious  passage 
in  his  book  in  which  he  exults  over  the  alleged  fact  revealed 
by  the  post-mortem  examination  of  Byron's  remains — that 
the  poet's  heart  was  found  to  be  partly  petrified  or  turned 
into  stone! 

A  pretty  bauble  this  to  play  with !  There  are  saner  men 
than  my  Lord  Lovelace  trying  to  seize  the  moon  through 
their  grated  windows,  and  coming  very  near  to  doing  it — 
oh,  very  near! 

But  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  my  Lord  Lovelace's 
heart!  .  .  . 

Lovers  of  Byron's  fame  may  be  glad,  at  least,  that  the 
worst  has  now  been  said  and  calumny  can  not  touch  the  great 
poet  further.  Ever  since  his  death  more  than  eighty  years  ago, 
the  hyenas  of  scandal  have  wrangled  over  his  grave,  shock 
ing  the  world  in  their  hunt  for  uncleanness.  All  the  name 
less  things  that  delight  to-  see  greatness  brought  low,  genius 
disgraced,  the  sanctuary  of  honor  defiled  and  the  virtue  of 
humanity  trampled  in  the  dirt,  were  bidden  to  the  feast. 
Those  obscene  orgies  have  lasted  a  long  time :  they  are  now 
at  an  end.  The  unclean  have  taken  away  the  uncleanness,  if 
such  there  was,  and  are  dispersed  with  their  foul  kindred 
in  the  wilderness.  The  clean  remains  and  all  that  was  truly 
vital  and  imperishable  of  Byron — the  legacy  of  his  genius, 


70  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

the  inspiration  of  his  example  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  the 
deathless  testimony  of  his  spirit  for  that  supreme  cause,  and 
his  flame-hearted  protest  against  the  enthroned  Sham,  Mean 
ness  and  Oppression  which  still  rule  the  world.  These 
precious  bequests  of  Byron  we  have  immortal  and  secure.  As 
for  the  rest — 

Glory  without  end 

Scattered  the  clouds  away,  and  on  that  name  attend 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time ! 


Lafcadio    Ream. 


AS  the  Silence  fallen  upon  thee,  O  Lafcadio,  in 
that  far  Eastern  land  of  strange  flowers,  strange 
gods  and  myths,  where  thou,  grown,  weary  of  a 
world  whence  the  spirit  of  romance  had  flown, 
didst  fix  thy  later  home  ?  Art  thou  indeed  gone 
forever  from  us,  who  loved  thee,  being  of  thy  brave  faith  in 
the  divinity  of  the  human  spirit,  and  art  thou  gathered  to  a 
strange  Valhalla  of  thy  wiser  choice, — naturalized  now,  as 
we  may  of  a  truth  believe,  among  the  elect  and  heroic  shades 
of  old  Japan?  Is  that  voice  stilled  which  had  not  its  peer 
in  these  last  lamentable  days,  sounding  the  gamut  of  beauty 
and  joy  that  had  almost  ceased  to  thrill  the  souls  of  men? 
Child  of  Hellas  and  Erin,  are  those  half-veiled  eyes,  that  yet 
saw  so  deeply  into  the  spiritual  Mystery  that  enfolds  our  sen 
suous  life,  forever  closed  to  this  earthly  scene?  Hath  Beauty 
lost  her  chief  witness  and  the  Lyre  of  Prose  her  anointed 
bard  and  sacerdos?  Shall  we  no  more  hearken  to  the 
cadences  of  that  perfect  speech  which  was  thy  birthright, 
sprung  as  thou  wert  from  the  poesy  of  two  immemorial  lands, 
sacred  to  eloquence  and  song  ? 

Ill  shall  we  bear  thy  loss,  O  Lafcadio,  given  over  as  we 
are  to  the  rule  and  worship  of  leaden  gods.  Th'ou  wert  for 
us  a  witness  against  the  iron  Law  that  crushed,  and  ever 
crushes,  our  lives;  against  the  man-made  superstition  which 
impudently  seeks  to  limit  the  Ideal.  From  beyond  the  violet 
seas,  in  thy  flower-crowned  retreat,  thou  didst  raise  the  joyous 
paean  of  the  Enfranchised.  Plunged  deep  into  mystic  lore 
hidden  from  us,  exploring  a  whole  realm  of  myths  and  wor 
ships  of  which  our  vain  science  knows  nothing,  thou  wouldst 
smile  with  gentle  scorn  at  the  monstrous  treadmill  of  creeds 


72  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

and  cultures — gods  and  words — where  we  are  forever 
doomed  to  toil  without  fruit  or  respite. 

We  hearkened  to  thy  wondrous  tales  of  a  land  whose 
babes  have  more  of  the  spirit  of  Art  than  the  teachers  of  our 
own;  where  love  is  free  yet  honored  and  decency  does  not 
consist  in  doing  that  privately  which  publicly  no  man  dare 
avow;  where  religion,  in  our  brutal  sense,  does  not  exist;  and 
where  crime,  again  in  our  brutal  sense,  is  all  but  unknown. 
We  heard  thee  tell,  with  evermore  wonder,  how  this  people 
of  Japan  has  gone  on  for  hundreds,  nay,  thousands  of  years, 
producing  the  humblest  as  well  as  the  highest  virtues  without 
the  aid  of  an  officious  religion ;  how  these  Japanese  folk  have 
the  wisdom  of  age  and  the  simplicity  of  childhood,  being 
simple  and  happy,  loving  peace,  contented  with  little,  respect 
ful  toward  the  old,  tender  toward  the  young,  merciful  toward 
women,  submissive  under  just  authority,  and  loving  their 
beautiful  country  with  a  fervor  of  patriotism  which  we  may 
not  conceive. 

All  this  and  more  thou  didst  teach  us,  Lafcadio,  in  the  way 
of  thy  gracious  art,  with  many  an  exquisite  fancy  caught  from 
the  legendary  love  of  ancient  Nippon  and  with  the  ripe  ful 
ness  of  thy  strangely  blended  genius.  So  we  listened  as  to  a 
far-brought  strain  of  music,  and  were  glad  to  hear,  hailing 
thee  Master — a  title  thou  hadst  proudly  earned.  Yet  even 
as  we  sat  at  thy  feet  drinking  in  the  tones  of  thy  voice,  there 
came  One  who  touched  thee  quickly  on  the  lips — and  we 
knew  the  rest  was  Silence. 

Peace  to  thee,  Lafcadio,  child  of  Erin  and  Hellas,  adopted 
son  and  poet  of  Nippon.  Thy  immortality  is  a  ceaseless  day- 
spring;  for  thou  sleepest  in  the  Land  of  the  Sunrise  .  .  . 
and  Nippon,  who  has  never  learned  to  forget,  watches  over 
thy  fame. 


Lafcadio  Hearn  was  a  poet  working  in  prose,  as  all  true 
poets  now  inevitably  are,  a  literary  artist  of  original  motive 


LAFCADIO  HEARN  73 

and  distinction  among  the  rabble  of  contemporary  scribblers. 
For  these  two  things  a  man  is  not  easily  forgiven  or  forgotten 
when  he  has  passed  the  Styx. 

Half  Irish,  half  Greek,  the  flower  of  this  man's  genius 
took  unwonted  hue  and  fragrance  from  his  strangely  blended 
paternity ;  the  hybrid  acquired  a  beauty  new  and  surprising  in 
a  world  that  looks  only  for  the  stereotype.  Despairing  of  the 
tame  effects  produced  by  regularity,  Nature  herself  seems  to 
have  set  an  example  of  lawlessness. 

Lafcadio  Hearn  took  care  to  avoid  the  conventional  in  the 
ordering  of  his  life  as  sedulously  as  in  the  products  of  his 
brain.  For  this,  the  man  being  now  dead  and  silent,  the  con 
ventional  takes  a  familiar  revenge  upon  his  memory. 

The  conventional — lest  we  forget — is  the  consensus  of 
smug  souls,  the  taboo  uttered  by  mediocrity,  the  Latin  in- 
vidia  whereat  Flaccus  flickered,  with  all  his  assurance.  It  has 
much  the  same  voice  in  every  age. 

So  we  are  hearing  that  one  of  the  very  few  men  who  both 
made  and  honored  literature  in  our  time  was,  in  his  daily  life 
and  his  principles  of  conduct,  a  moral  monstrosity ;  a  sort  of 
intellectual  Caliban,  delighting  in  the  abnormal  and  the  per 
verse,  especially  in  the  sexually  abnormal  and  the  racially  per 
verse.  Through  the  frankness  of  certain  persons,  mostly 
journalists  who  refrained  from  speaking  while  Hearn  might 
have  contradicted  them,  we  learn  that  while  in  this  country  he 
made  a  cult  of  miscegenation,  as  it  presents  itself  at  New 
Orleans  and  other  places  in  the  South,  consorted  with  ne- 
gresses  of  the  lowest  type,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  unclean 
mysteries  of  voodooism. 

These  facts  are  cheerfully,  even  emulously,  borne  witness 
to  by  journalists  who  worked  with  Hearn  and  who  shared  his 
friendship  and  confidence.  That  they  should  make  copy  of 
their  acquaintance  (alleged  )with  the  dead  man  is  not,  per 
haps,  of  itself  a  censurable  thing.  That  they  may  have  black 
ened  him  in  their  report  is  not,  unluckily,  without  precedent 


74  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

in  the  ways  of  journalism.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  fine  sense 
of  honor  among  journalists  and  an  utter  freedom  from  the 
basest  of  all  vices,  envy — but  that  is  not  the  present  subiect. 

We  learn  from  the  same  source  that  Hearn's  final  mar 
riage  with  a  Japanese  woman  was  strictly  in  keeping  with  the 
innate  perversity  which  moved  him  to  loathe  and  shun  his 
own  race.  (She  bore  him  children  who  survive  their  father, 
but  not  the  less  nobly  did  we  refuse  to  spare  their  feelings.) 
Descriptions  of  Hearn's  physical  appearance  to  suit  the  pic 
ture  of  moral  depravity  above  outlined,  are  frankly  and  min 
utely  supplied.  God  forgive  them ! — the  libel  is  such  as  to 
burn  the  heart  of  every  man  who  loves  and  honors  true 
genius. 

How  such  a  monster  could  have  produced  the  miracles  of 
thought  and  style  and  fancy  which  are  everywhere  scattered 
like  seed  pearl  in  the  writings  of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  your  can 
did  journalists  do  not  attempt  to  explain — the  thing  is  beyond 
their  quality.  But  the  other  thing — the  legend  of  the  man's 
debasement — they  know  devilish  well,  and  they  tell  of  it 
right  pertly,  so  that  faith  is  easily  induced  in  the  story.  And 
the  wings  of  the  press  carry  the  foul  tale  to  many  a  quarter 
where  no  word  of  contradiction  will  ever  find  its  way.  For 
this  is  the  justice  of  journalism. 

Notwithstanding,  one  plain  fact,  avouched  by  all  human 
experience,  may  reassure  the  wide-scattered  fraternity  of 
those  who  prize  the  work  and  cherish  the  memory  of  Laf 
cadio  Hearn.  It  is  this : — No  man  ever  succeeded  in  writing 
himself  down  better  or  worse  than  he  really  was.  You  may 
write,  but  the  condition  is  that  you  make  a  faithful  likeness 
of  yourself — nothing  extenuate  nor  set  down  aught  in  malice. 

The  true  Lafcadio  Hearn,  the  shy,  pitiably  myopic  genius 
nursed  on  tears,  the  dreamer  of  strange  dreams,  the  prose 
poet  of  a  new  dower  of  fancy,  the  weaver  of  hitherto  un- 
wrought  cadences  for  the  inner  ear,  the  latest  brave  worship- 


LAFCADIO  HEARN 


75 


er  of  truth  and  beauty, — where  shall  we  look  for  him  but  in 
his  enduring  work? — soul  and  man  to  the  essential  life ! 

As  for  the  horrid  changeling  of  the  journalists,  it  is 
already, — with  the  consent  of  all  kind  hearts, — rejected  and 
ground  up  with  the  refuse  of  yesterday's  editions. 


H  fellow  to  the  Rev.  2)r,  fiyde. 

N  literature  the  fable  of  the  living  ass  and  the 
dead  lion  is  constantly  repeating  itself.  I  have 
just  chanced  upon  an  instance  in  which  the  ass 
displays  more  than  his  usual  temerity. 

A  person  all  unknown  to  fame,  one  Rev. 
Frederic  Rowland  Marvin,  makes  a  tuppenny  bid  for  notice 
by  impeaching  the  integrity  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
motives  in  writing  the  celebrated  Letter  on  Father  Damien. 

Needless  to  recall,  the  Letter  was  addressed  to  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Hyde,  of  Honolulu,  who  had  cast  some  very  gross  and 
unmerited  aspersions  upon  the  martyr  priest. 

Damien,  as  all  the  world  knows,  was  a  Belgian  missionary 
priest  who  had  devoted  himself  to  the  service  of  the  lepers  at 
Molokai,  and,  at  the  height  of  his  vigorous  ministry,  con 
tracting  the  disease,  died  among  them.  The  question  of  his 
saintship  cannot  be  taken  up  by  the  Church  until  a  hundred 
years  after  his  death.  Meantime  many  people  of  different 
religions,  and  some  of  none  at  all,  regard  Damien  as  the  only 
authentic  saint  of  modern  times.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
was  unquestionably  of  this  opinion. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Hyde,  of  Honolulu,  in  a  letter  to  a  brother 
parson  (the  Rev.  H.  B.  Gage)  made  the  hideous  charge  that 
Damien  had  become  infected  with  leprosy  through  sexual 
intercourse  with  the  women  lepers  of  Molokai ;  characterized 
him  as  "a  coarse,  dirty  man,  headstrong  and  bigoted,"  and 
sneered  at  the  chorus  of  praise  which  his  heroic  death  had 
evoked.  All  of  which  was  extensively  circulated  by  religious 
papers  of  the  Hyde  denomination. 

This  precious  testimony  came  under  the  eye  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  who  had  himself  visited  the  leper  colony 


A  FELLOW  TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HYDE        77 

when  Damien  was  uin  his  resting  grave,"  and  had  collected 
the  whole  truth  regarding  him  from  the  witnesses  of  his  life 
and  death.  By  an  useful  coincidence,  the  author  had  likewise 
seen  the  reverend  slanderer  Hyde  and  held  converse  with 
him  at  his  "fine  house  in  Beretania  street"  (Honolulu). 

The  posthumous  attack  upon  Damien  by  a  rival  but 
recreant  missioner,  breathing  a  sectarian  malignity  rare  in  our 
time,  touched  that  fiery  intrepid  soul  to  an  utterance  which 
ranks  with  the  highest  proofs  of  his  genius  and  the  best  fruits 
of  the  liberal  spirit.  His  Letter  on  Father  Damien  is,  in  truth, 
the  quintessence  of  Stevenson,  the  choice  extract  of  his  pas 
sion  and  power,  his  deep-hearted  hatred  of  injustice,  his 
princelike  contempt  of  meanness,  his  loathing  scorn  of  re 
ligious  bigotry,  his  tenderness,  delicacy  and  chivalry, — all 
conveyed  in  a  flawless  triumph  of  literary  art.  Not  vainly 
did  he  boast: 

"If  I  have  at  all  learned  the  trade  of  using  words  to  con 
vey  truth  and  to  arouse  emotion,  you  have  at  last  furnished 
me  with  a  subject."  And  again:  "I  conceive  you  as  a  man 
quite  beyond  and  below  the  reticences  of  civility;  with  what 
measure  you  mete,  with  that  it  shall  be  measured  to  you 
again;  with  you,  at  last,  I  rejoice  to  feel  the  button  off  the 
foil  and  to  plunge  home." 

I  can  never  read  the  Letter  to  Hyde  without  seeing  a  flame 
run  between  the  lines;  I  never  lay  it  down  that  I  do  not 
at  once  bless  and  damn  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hyde.  But  not  being 
myself  parson-led,  I  wish  the  gentleman  no  worse  damnation 
than  is  assured  to  him  in  Tusitala's  honest  tribute. 

Well,  this  is  the  piece  of  work  which  Dr.  Marvin — he  is, 
it  appears,  a  parson  like  the  eternally  disgraced  Hyde — seeks 
to  disparage  by  attainting  the  integrity  of  the  knightliest  fig 
ure  of  modern  letters.  Let  us  see  how  this  bold  parson 
achieves  the  asinine  exploit  of  kicking  the  dead  lion  and  be 
traying  his  folly  to  the  world. 

After  stating  the  extraordinary  assumption  that  Steven- 


78  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

son's  Letter  on  Father  Damien  "was  never  regarded  as  any 
thing  more  than  a  striking  exhibition  of  literary  pyrotechny," 
Dr.  Marvin  proceeds  to  judgment  as  follows : 

"Stevenson's  letter  was,  I  am  fully  persuaded,  more  the 
work  of  the  rhetorician  than  of  the  man.  He  was  carried 
away  by  the  opportunity  of  making  a  rhetorical  flourish  and 
impression,  and  so  went  further  than  his  own  judgment  ap 
proved.  Stevenson  was  a  man  of  many  noble  qualities,  and 
conscience  was  not  wanting  as  an  element  of  power  in  his 
life,  but  his  letter  to  Dr.  Hyde  was  not  honest,  nor  had  it  for 
any  length  of  time  the  approval  of  his  own  inner  sense  of 
right  and  justice.  He  did  not  really  believe  what  he  wrote, 
neither  did  he  intend  to  write  what  he  did.  The  temptation 
from  a  literary  point  of  view  was  great,  and  the  writer  got 
the  better  of  the  man." 

Here  the  parson  speaks  in  no  uncertain  tone — a  mere  lit 
erary  man  would  not  so  frame  his  indictment.  But  what  a 
gorgeous  piece  of  impudence ! 

I  would  not  take  the  Rev.  Marvin  too  seriously,  but  lest 
any  person  with  the  wit  of  three  asses  should  be  deceived  by 
his  shallow  effrontery,  I  am  bound  to  notice  it.  And  since  the 
Rev.  Marvin  has  of  his  own  free  will  made  himself  yoke 
fellow  with  the  infamous  Hyde,  it  is  but  just  that  he  be 
clothed  with  the  full  dignity  of  his  election. 

To  discuss  the  foolish  question  which  he  has  raised  con 
cerning  Stevenson's  honesty  of  motive  in  writing  the  Letter 
to  Dr.  Hyde,  would  shame  any  man — not  a  parson — of  com 
mon  sense.  Nor  is  it  needful  in  any  case,  the  Rev.  Marvin 
sufficiently  putting  himself  out  of  terms  in  these  words :  "The 
temptation  from  a  literary  point  of  view  was  great,  and  the 
writer  got  the  better  of  the  man." 

Now  the  lovers  of  Stevenson  have  no  need  to  be  reminded 
that  such  was  his  passionate  care  to  avoid  the  slightest  doubt 
of  his  sincerity  in  writing  as  he  did  upon  Damien  and  to  repel 
the  stock  literary  imputation  here  uttered  by  a  worthy  cham- 


A  FELLOW  TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HYDE        79 

pion  of  Hyde,  that  the  Letter  was  printed  originally  for  pri 
vate  distribution  only,  the  public  demand  for  it  soon  becoming 
irresistible;  and  that  Stevenson  always  refused  to  touch  a 
penny  from  the  publication.  In  1890  he  wrote  to  a  London 
publisher  who  wished  to  bring  out  an  edition : — "The  Letter 
to  Dr.  Hyde  is  yours  or  any  man's.  I  will  never  touch  a 
penny  of  remuneration.  I  do  not  stick  at  murder:  I  draw 
the  line  at  cannibalism.  I  could  not  eat  a  penny  roll  that  piece 
of  bludgeoning  had  gained  for  me."  .  . 

"If  the  world  at  all  remember  you"  (said  the  Letter  to 
Hyde)  "on  the  day  when  Damien  of  Molokai  shall  be 
named  saint,  it  will  be  in  virtue  of  one  work :  your  letter  to 
the  Reverend  H.  B.  Gage." 

Was  ever  such  a  sight  vouchsafed  to  gods  or  men  as  this 
of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Marvin  struggling  belatedly  to  win  for  him 
self  a  small  title  in  that  infamous  remembrance — to  snatch 
a  rag  from  the  garment  of  shame  which  the  great  artist 
fitted  upon  Dr.  Hyde  in  his  character  of  Devil's  Advocate 
against  Damien? 

The  defense  of  Damien  remains  one  of  the  cherished  doc 
uments  of  the  free  spirit.  I  thank  Dr.  Marvin  for  having 
given  me  an  occasion  of  re-reading  it,  and  I  cheerfully  ac 
cord  him  the  grace  of  having  moved  me  to  perform  this 
religious  duty  twice  instead  of  (my  usual  practice)  once  in 
the  year.  I  can  but  wonder  what  manner  of  man  is  he  that  it 
should  have  done  him  so  little  good;  yet  I  know  I  shall  love 
it  the  more  that  its  truth  is  thus  again  proven  by  the  futile 
attacks  of  a  spiritual  fellow  to  Hyde. 

Yes,  I  re-read — as,  please  God,  often  I  shall  re-read — that 
true  story  of  Damien's  martyrdom,  bare  and  tragic  as  Molo 
kai  itself,  traced  by  the  hand  of  one  who  had  no  sympathy  of 
religious  faith  with  him  but  only  the  common  kinship  of 
humanity — "that  noble  brother  of  mine  and  of  all  frail  clay." 
I  read  again,  with  quickened  pulse,  of  the  lowly  peasant 
priest,  who,  in  obedience  to  the  Master's  call,  "shut  to  with 


8o  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

his  own  hand  the  doors  of  his  own  sepulchre!"  I  saw  once 
more  that  woeful  picture  of  the  lepers'  island,  surrounded  by 
a  great  waste  of  sea,  which  to  those  condemned  wretches 
spells  the  black  despair  of  infinity: — in  its  midst  the  hill  with 
the  dead  crater,  the  hopeless  front  of  precipice,  the  desolation 
there  prepared  by  nature  for  death  too  hideous  for  men  to 
look  upon.  Again  I  made  that  melancholy  voyage  to  Moh> 
kai  and  wept  with  Tusitala  as  he  sat  in  the  boat  with  the  two 
sisters,  "bidding  farewell,  in  humble  imitation  of  Damien,  to 
the  lights  and  joys  of  human  life."  I  shuddered  to  mark  the 
fearful  deformations  of  humanity  that  awaited  us  on  the 
shore — the  population  of  a  nightmare — every  other  face  a 
blot  on  the  landscape.  I  saw  that  the  place  was  an  unspeak 
able  hell  even  with  the  hospital  and  other  improvements, 
lacking  when  Damien  came  there  and  "slept  that  first  night 
under  a  tree  amidst  his  rotting  brethren."  I  visited  the 
Bishop-Home,  whose  every  cup  and  towel  had  been  washed 
by  the  hand  of  "dirty  Damien."  I  saw  everywhere  the  tokens 
of  his  passage  who  "by  one  striking  act  of  martyrdom  had 
directed  all  men's  eyes  on  that  distressful  country — who  at  a 
blow  and  the  price  of  his  life  had  made  the  place  illustrious 
and  public."  I  thought  upon  that  great  and  simple  renuncia 
tion,  daunting  the  mind  with  its  sheer  sacrifice  which,  better 
far  than  all  the  loud-tongued  creeds,  brought  the  living  Christ 
within  sight  and  touch  and  understanding.  And  these  won 
derful  lines  of  Browning  came  into  my  mind  with  a  sudden 
vividly  realized  meaning  and  pathos : — 

Remember  what  a  martyr  said 

On  the  rude  tablet  overhead : 

"I  was  born  sickly,  poor  and  mean, 

"A  slave — no  misery  could  screen 

"The  holders  of  the  pearl  of  price 

"From  Caesar's  envy;  therefore  twice 

"I  fought  with  beasts,  three  times  I  saw 


A  FELLOW  TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HYDE        8r 

uMy  children  suffer  by  his  law; 
"At  last  my  own  release  was  earned ; 
"I  was  some  time  in  being  burned, 
"But  at  the  close  a  Hand  came  through 
"The  fire  above  my  head,  and  drew 
"My  soul  to  Christ,  whom  now  I  see. 
"Sergius,  a  brother,  writes  for  me 
"This  testimony  on  the  wall — 
"For  me,  I  have  forgot  it  all." 


JMr,  Guppy* 


HERE  was  once,  according  to  Mr.  Dickens,  a 
young  man  named  Guppy,  of  'umble  circum 
stances,  who  became  wildly  smitten  with  Igh 
Life,  as  reflected  in  the  newspapers.  He  read 
the  Court  Circular  assiduously,  he  cut  out  and 
framed  the  portraits  of  Social  Celebrities;  he  lived  in  fancy 
amid  the  splendid  scenes  of  his  desire.  Mr.  Guppy  special 
ized  on  the  Haristocracy,  the  most  sacred  institution  of  his 
country;  the  names  of  dukes,  lords,  duchesses,  countesses, 
came  trippingly  to  his  tongue.  The  poor  young  man  fancied 
himself  in  familiar  habits  with  all  those  grand  people,  and 
this  harmless  delusion  occasionally  made  him  suffer,  as  when 
once  he  reproached  himself  with  having  entered  into  a  liaison 
with  a  countess  (Her  name,  sir! — never  would  the  lips  of 
Guppy  reveal  it).  In  the  main,  however,  Mr.  Guppy  was 
happy  in  his  illusions,  as  the  mildly  mad  usually  are.  He 
knew  that  he  could  never  put  his  ambitions  to  the  proof, 
owing  to  the  sacredly  exclusive  character  of  Igh  Society;  and 
so  he  was  spared  trials  which  might  have  soured  his  sweetly 
hopeful  spirit. 

I  shall  not  deny  that  Mr.  Guppy  was  a  snob — he  would 
have  gloried  in  the  title  as  identifying  him,  by  implication, 
with  the  great ;  but  I  submit  he  was  one  over  whom  Chanty 
may  well  drop  a  tear.  Nay,  if  the  word  snob  covered  only 
such  virtues  and  failings  as  those  of  the  lamented  Guppy,  it 
might  well  be  worn  as  a  decoration  of  honor. 

In  the  pages  of  Dickens  Mr.  Guppy  seldom  wins  more 
than  a  careless  smile — the  gloom  of  the  surrounding  tragedy 
crocks  off,  so  to  speak,  upon  the  joyousness  of  Guppy.  Yet 


MR.  GUPPY  83 

the  Master  has  given  us  nothing  that  better  denotes  his  hand; 
Mr.  Guppy  certifies  the  genius  of  his  creator  in  little. 

If  you  think  this  far-fetched,  look  at  the  figure  Mr. 
Guppy  makes  in  the  world  to-day.  See  him  editing  the  "so^ 
ciety  pages"  of  the  great  New  York  newspapers.  See  his 
honest  efforts  to  foster  the  spirit  of  caste  in  this  country — 
honest  because  he  is  himself  shut  out  from  the  heaven  which 
he  depicts,  and  would  sell  his  soul  to  get  a  card  for  his  wife 
or  daughter.  See  him  sometimes,  on  another  page,  elo 
quently  denouncing  the  perils  of  a  society  of  wealth,  at  the 
same  time  kissing  and  biting  the  hand  of  fortune.  See  him  in 
the  weeklies,  those  shining  mirrors  of  public  taste,  which  are 
entirely  consecrate  to  the  ideals  of  Mr.  Guppy  and  fairly 
reek  of  him  in  editorial,  picture  and  story.  See  him  exalted 
to  the  Nth  splendor  in  Philadelphia,  where  they  name  him 
Bok.  See  him  in  the  magazines,  that  world  which  from  the 
heaven  above  to  the  earth  underneath  declares  the  greatness 
of  Guppy.  See  there  in  all  its  perfect  flower  the  rank  Ameri 
can  quintessence  of  Guppy — the  subtle  flattery  of  picture,  the 
fawning,  lick-spittle  worship  of  the  text,  the  hundred  sur 
faces  of  the  Social  Lie,  glossed  and  pumiced  and  polished  for 
those  who  believe  themselves  to  form  a  superior  class,  and  as 
a  lure  for  the  eyes  of  envy  and  desire. 

Note  the  phraseology  of  the  American  Guppy — his  easy 
air  of  superiority,  quite  like  the  inherited  article,  his  jaunty 
attempt  to  connect  and  identify  the  aristocracy  of  the  Old 
World  with  the  aristocracy  of  the  New ;  his  patter  of  names 
and  titles  and  pedigrees ;  his  calm  ignoring  of  that  negligible 
quantity,  "the  people;"  his  absolute  conviction  that  the  few 
hundreds  or  thousands  for  whom  he  speaks  are  alone  worth 
considering  and  that  all  the  millions  only  want  to  hear  about 
them.  Can  it  be  that  we  are  being  led  by  Mr.  Guppy,  as  a 
child  would  lead  us?  And  unto  what  issues?  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Atherton,  a  woman  of  talent,  has  made  a  study  of  the 
inexhaustible  Guppy.  She  naturalizes  him  in  this  country, 


84  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

gives  him  the  soul  of  a  would-be  American  snob,  with  the 
same  kind  of  food  upon  which  the  original  Guppy  fed,  and 
sets  him  to  work.  The  results  are  what  the  critics  call  "har 
rowing" — they  are  also  good  entertainment  and  good  art; 
and  the  telling  of  the  story  involves  an  exquisite  satire  on  the 
American  social  idea.  One  sees,  too,  that  Mrs.  Atherton  is 
not  herself  free  from  the  bitterness  with  which  she  engulfs 
her  hero:  the  Marah  of  Guppy  is  over  us  all  I 

Mrs.  Atherton's  Guppy  is  first  baited  by  the  newspapers, 
and  loses  his  soul  in  the  description  of  social  grandeurs  writ 
ten  and  printed  by  men  who  can  not  for  their  lives  break  into 
society.  Then  he  falls  heir  to  a  little  money  and  sets  out  to 
make  a  regular  campaign  at  Newport.  He  is  good-looking, 
dresses  well,  and  his  intelligence  does  not  amount  to  a  crime. 
Everything  then  seems  to  be  in  his  favor,  but — let  me  not 
spoil  a  story  which  Mrs.  Atherton  alone  has  the  right 
to  tell.  Read  it,  and  you  will  get  a  more  acute  sense  of  the 
great  American  comedy  now  enacting,  a  bit  of  which  is  here 
etched  with  delicious  malice ;  you  will  also  agree  with  me  as 
to  the  importance  of  Mr.  Guppy. 

I  find  much,  very  much,  of  Mr.  Guppy  in  the  palaver  of 
the  literary  press.  He  is  at  the  same  time  an  eulogist,  with 
out  measure,  and  a  depredator,  without  justice,  of  American 
literary  effort.  Now  he  vaunts  the  vigor  of  our  Western  lit 
erary  spirit,  free  from  the  shackles  of  tradition,  and  now  he 
prostrates  himself  before  the  wooden  gods  of  the  British 
Philistia.  To-day  he  will  rank  Woodrow  Wilson  with  Hal- 
lam  or  Lecky,  and  exalt  Howells  above  Thackeray;  to-mor 
row  he  will  confess  that  we  have  no  historian  or  novelist 
worthy  to  be  named  with  those  of  the  second  British  rank. 
The  editor  of  a  leading  American  review  can  see  no  hope  for 
American  literature,  and  deplores  the  badness  of  the  books 
which  his  paper  advertises  by  the  broadside.  This  is  called 
the  literary  conscience — it  is  really  the  hand  of  Mr.  Guppy. 

The  truth  is,  the  curse  of  trying  to  seem  the  thing  we  are 


MR.  GUPPY  85 

not — the  essence  of  Guppy — is  upon  our  literature  and  our 
sorry  excuse  for  criticism  as  upon  our  social  life.  We  are  the 
most  unreal  people  in  the  world,  because  we  don't  know  what 
we  are  nor  what  God  wants  to  make  of  us.  Of  course,  I  speak 
only  of  the  infinitesimal,  self-conscious  minority — the  great 
mass  of  our  people  are  all  right,  but  they  are  not  the  artistic 
concern  of  Mr.  Guppy.  The  literature  that  pretends  in  this 
country  is  always  aimed  at  the  minority,  and  then,  through 
the  collusion  of  the  Guppys  of  the  press  with  the  publishing 
trade,  it  is  worked  off  upon  the  public.  This  happy  result 
having  been  achieved,  Mr.  Guppy  exclaims  against  the  bad 
ness  and  futility  of  the  stuff  which  he  has  helped  to  foist  on 
the  literary  market. 

Now  and  then,  God  knows  how,  a  vigorous  book  with  the 
red  corpuscle,  gets  written  and  past  the  line  which  the  care 
of  Mr.  Guppy  has  established.  Instantly  a  hue  and  cry  is 
raised  that  the  book  is  without  style  or  literary  merit  and 
that  the  success  of  such  a  work  simply  argues  the  low  level 
of  taste  in  this  country.  On  such  rare  occasions  Mr.  Guppy 
is  not  ashamed  to  show  us  his  tears — and  he  is  never  so  terri 
bly  humorous  as  then. 

The  other  day  a  man  died  who  had  written  a  book  which 
was  and  remains  one  of  the  greatest  successes  of  our  time. 
It  has  been  read  by  thousands  and  thousands  of  people,  both 
in  this  country  and  in  Europe.  It  was  a  book  that  emphatic 
ally  made  for  good.  To  many  it  brought  a  sense  of  the 
divine  beauty  of  the  Christian  legend  which  they  would  not 
otherwise  have  gained.  It  was  to  them  and  will  be  to  thou 
sands  of  others  unborn,  "tidings  of  great  joy."  At  the  very 
least,  it  planted  in  their  lives  a  little  shrub  of  grace  and  heal 
ing  which  casts  its  perfume  across  the  years.  I  am  myself,  if 
Mr.  Guppy  will  allow  me,  indifferent  literary ;  I  like  a  style 
as  well  as  a  story,  and  I  believe  that  a  good  story  always  finds 
a  style.  Well,  I  have  read  a-many  books  in  divers  tongues 
and  among  the  most  precious  pictures  stored  up  therefrom 


86 


PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 


in  my  memory,  is  the  meeting  of  Ben-Hur  with  the  young 
Son  of  Joseph,  who  gave  him  to  drink.  I  was  a  boy  when  I 
read  the  book,  and  the  boyish  love  I  lavished  upon  it  was,  I 
am  sure,  worth  far  more  than  the  critical  apparatus  I  could 
now  bring  to  the  judging  of  it.  I  did  not  ask  then  if  it  was 
Art :  I  do  not  ask  now. 

Oh,  Mr.  Guppy,  if  you  could  give  me  back  those  young 
feelings  of  joy,  of  pity  and  wonder,  such  as  no  book  could 
now  excite,  I  would  almost  pardon  the  cheap  sneers  which 
you  and  your  kind  fling  upon  that  honored  grave. 


H  port  of 

EADER,  when  for  you  as  for  me  the  wild  heyday 
of  youth  is  past,  and  the  heart  of  adventure 
all  but  pulseless,  there  is  yet  remaining  to  us  a 
wonderful,  untried,  and,  especially,  untrodden, 
realm  of  romance.  When  churlish  Time  shall 
think  to  retire  us  from  the  heat  and  zest  of  life,  classing  us, 
too  prematurely,  as  uold  boys,"  there  is  still  a  trick  we  may 
turn  to  his  discomfiture.  When  the  younkers  club  their  fool 
ish  wits  for  a  poor  joke  at  our  expense — what  is  so  utterly 
inane  to  maturity  as  juvenile  humor,  green-cheese  pleasan 
try,  pithless,  fledgeling  conceits? — we  who  are  wise  know 
that  the  best  of  the  game  is  still  for  us ;  nor  would  we  change 
with  the  reckless  spendthrifts  who  mock  us  from  the  vanity 
of  twenty  year. 

It's  ho  for  candles,  a  book  and  bed ! 

For  candles,  the  modern  equivalent,  of  course.  I  prefer  a 
strong,  well-shaded  lamp  to  electric  light  or  gas;  the  rocke 
feller  burns  with  a  steady  flame,  does  not  sputter,  or  dwin 
dle,  or  go  out  entirely,  leaving  you  in  a  sulphuric  darkness. 
But  the  wick  should  be  trimmed  by  the  hand  of  her  who  loves 
you  best  in  the  world ;  by  her,  too,  must  the  reading  table  be 
adjusted  cosily  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  so  that  the  incidence  of 
the  gently  burning  flame  may  be  just  right — the  more 
or  less  in  these  matters  is  of  infinite  significance;  by  her  must 
the  books  and,  above  all,  The  Book,  be  disposed  ready  to  the 
discriminating  hand  of  the  Sovereign  Lector. 

Oh! — and,  of  course,  the  pipes  or  cigars.  No  smokeless 
person  hath  any  rights  in  this  kingdom ;  he  cometh  falsely  by 
his  investiture;  he  is  a  Bezonian  without  choice;  a  marplot 
and  spy — out  with  him !  .  .  . 


88  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

As  to  the  time  of  going  to  bed,  I  would  say  eight  o'clock, 
or  half  after  eight;  not  earlier  nor  later, though  the  point  need 
not  be  strained  to  a  finical  nicety.  But  one  can  not  con 
veniently  go  to  bed  amid  the  daylight  business  of  the  house, 
nor  before  supper,  nor  too  soon  after  it.  I  knew  a  man  who 
perversely  insisted  upon  going  to  bed  at  five  o'clock;  he 
never  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  true  bed-reader,  and  that  which 
is,  properly  used,  the  most  delightful  of  indulgences,  became 
in  the  end,  to  this  person,  a  formidable  dissipation.  Like  a 
bad  mariner,  he  was  constantly  out  of  his  reckoning  and  at 
last  came  to  grief:  the  fact  that  he  was  a  non-smoker  aided 
the  catastrophe. 

But  assuming  that  all  the  unities  have  been  fulfilled,  that 
the  Book,  the  Reader  and  the  Bed  are  in  the  most  fortuitous 
ly  fortunate  conjunction,  will  you  tell  me  that  the  world  has 
a  sweeter  pleasure  to  bestow,  a  more  profoundly  satisfying, 
yet  not  enervating,  luxury  of  indulgence  ? 

Recall  an  instant  that  first  delicious  thrill  of  relaxed  ease, 
of  blissful  security,  of  complete  physical  well-being — every 
nerve  telegraphing  its  congratulations  and  your  spinal  column 
intoning  a  grand  sweet  song  of  peace !  You  are  now  between 
the  snowy  sheets  and  the  Elect  Lady  is  looking  tenderly  to 
the  pillows,  etc.,  while  you  are  tasting  the  most  exquisite  of 
sensations  in  the  back  of  your  calves.  This  is  the  veritable 
nunc  dimittis  moment  of  the  experience;  you  are  prepared, 
soothed  and  dulcified  for  what  the  Greeks  called  euthanasy; 
could  that  old  classic  idea  of  dissolution  afford  you  a  sweeter 
pang?  .  .  . 

But,  man,  you're  not  dying  like  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain — 
you're  simply  going  to  bed  to  read.  And  here  the  Elect  Lady, 
giving  a  final  pat  to  the  pillows,  leans  over,  kisses  you  fondly 
and  says,  "All  right  now,  dear?" 

To  which  you  reply  (dissembling  an  internal  satisfaction 
violent  enough  to  alarm  the  police) — "All  right  now,  dar 
ling,  thank  you — but  just  push  the  cigars  a  bit  nearer — there. 


A  PORT  OF  AGE  89 

And  be  sure  you  tell  Mary  to  keep  the  children  quiet.  And, 
of  course,  you  won't  forget  to  bring  it  up  later — with  a  good 
bit  of  ice;  so  soothing  after  the  mental  excitement  of  a  strong 
author.  Thank  you,  dear." 

These  details  will  often  be  varied — the  unwedded  reader 
is  not,  I  think,  steeped  in  such  felicity,  and  of  course  there  be 
instances  where  the  married  lector  does  not  come  at  his  desire 
so  featly — but  the  outline  remains  the  same.  And  the  result 
arrives,  as  the  French  say:  that  is,  my  gentleman  comes  to 
book  and  bed. 

Then  truly  is  he  in  that  happy  state  described  by  the 
poet, — 

"The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot;" 
raised  to  the  Nirvana  of  the  mind ;  close-wrapped  in  the  eider 
down  security  of  his  little  kingdom  that  knoweth  no  treasons, 
stratagems  or  insurrections ;  in  the  world  and  yet  not  of  it,  as 
truly  though  in  a  different  sense  from  the  Apostolic  one; 
tasting  the  pure  pleasures  of  the  intellect  with  a  delicious 
feeling  of  mental  detachment  and  at  the  same  time  a  caressing 
consciousness  of  bodily  ease;  no  other  troubling  imperium  in 
his  imperio — no  thief  in  his  candle — no  fly  in  his  ointment — 
nothing  but  the  Book  and  his  Absoluteship ! 

It  is,  Socratically  considered,  the  only  rational  method  of 
reading — the  most  universally  abused  of  all  the  liberal  arts. 
Are  there  not  persons  who  make  a  foolish  pretence  of  reading 
on  railway  trains,  or  in  public  restaurants,  or  in  hotel  lobbies, 
or  even  in  theatres  between  the  acts — nay,  sometimes,  by  a 
piece  of  intolerable  coxcombry,  during  the  play  itself?  Whip 
me  such  barren  pretenders! — there  is  not  a  reader  among 
them  all. 

I  am  not  sure  that  there  is  higher  praise  (for  the  intel 
lectuals)  than  to  be  called  a  good  reader,  which  is  to  say,  a 
bed-reader.  For  the  true  reader  (lector  in  sponda)  is  only 
less  rare  than  the  genuine  writer;  his  genius  no  less  a  native 
and  unacquired  attribute ;  his  setting  apart  from  the  common 


90  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

herd  as  clearly  defined.  To  be  a  reader  in  this,  the  only 
true  sense,  is  to  belong  to  the  Aristocracy  of  Intellect  and  to 
be  assured  of  a  philosophy  which  brings  to  age  a  crown  of 
delight. 

No  man  should  take  up  the  noble  habit  of  reading  abed 
before  the  age  of  discretion,  that  is  to  say,  the  fortieth  year. 
For  at  the  eighth  lustrum  comes  the  dry  light  of  reason, 
which  is  the  true  essential  flame  of  the  bed-reader,  and,  lack 
ing  which,  he  hath  as  little  profit  of  his  vocation  as  the  owl  at 
noonday. 

As  to  what  he  may  read  abed,  we  shall  perhaps  have  some 
thing  to  say  another  time. 

******* 

Some  numbers  back  I  wrote  in  these  pages  a  brief  essay 
on  the  pleasures  of  reading  abed.  Many  appreciative  letters 
called  forth  by  this  article  seem  to  prove  that  the  most  de 
lightful  of  intellectual  pastimes  is  in  no  likelihood  of  falling 
into  neglect.  This,  too,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  habit  of 
smoking  at  the  same  time — a  necessary  concomitant,  as  I  have 
shown — makes  of  the  indulgence  a  "fearful  joy"  and  occa 
sionally  creates  a  little  business  for  the  insurance  companies. 

But  there  is  scarcely  an  act  of  our  daily  life  that  does  not 
involve  some  risk  or  peril,  and  the  stout  bed-reader  (and 
smoker)  will  not  suffer  himself  to  be  daunted  by  a  slight  acci 
dent  or  so,  or  even  a  hurry  call  from  the  fire  department. 
Besides,  in  my  former  article,  I  pointed  out  some  precaution 
ary  measures  which  elderly  gentlemen  (in  particular)  might 
take  in  order  to  combine  the  two  delicious  habits  of  reading 
and  smoking  abed  with  reasonable  safety.  I  would  not  have 
them  feel  too  safe,  however,  for  as  stolen  pleasures  are 
known  to  be  sweetest,  so  in  this  matter  the  bed-reader's  grati 
fication  is  heightened  and  dulcified  by  a  titillant  sense  of  lurk 
ing  danger.  Indeed,  I  make  no  doubt  that  a  spark  now  and 
then  dropping  on  the  bedclothes,  or  in  the  folds  of  the  read 
er's  nighty,  or  in  his  whiskers  (should  he  haply  be  valanced) 


A  PORT  OF  AGE  91 

and  discovered  before  any  great  damage  is  done  or  profanity 
released,  adds  appreciably  to  the  pleasure  of  the  indulgence 
and  is  not  a  thing  to  be  sedulously  guarded  against.  How 
ever,  this  is  all  a  matter  of  taste,  for  we  know,  without  refer 
ence  to  theology,  that  some  persons  can  stand  more  fire  than 
others. 

This  point  being  settled,  I  am  asked  to  give  a  list  of  books 
or  authors  suitable  to  the  requirements  of  the  mature  bed- 
reader  (there  are  no  others) .  I  do  not  much  relish  the  task, 
as  I  can  not  bear  to  have  my  own  reading  selected  for  me,  and 
the  priggish  effrontery  of  those  lettered  persons  who  are  con 
stantly  proposing  lists  of  "best  books"  (in  their  estimation, 
forsooth!)  moves  my  spleen  not  less  than  the  purgatorial  in 
dustry  of  the  Holy  Office.  But  perhaps  I  may  indirectly 
oblige  my  friends  by  glancing  slightly  at  the  preferences, — or 
mere  crotchets,  if  you  will, — of  an  irreclaimable  bed-reader, 
who,  being  entirely  quit  of  the  vanities  of  careless  youth,  has 
now  reached  that  mellowed  philosophic  age  when  he  would 
rather  lie  snugly  abed  with  a  bright  lamp  at  his  pillow  and  a 
genial  author  to  talk  to  him  than  do  anything  else  in  the 
world.  Oh,  by  my  faith ! 

In  the  first  place,  then,  I  would  put  books  of  a  meditative, 
personal  cast,  such  as  have  the  privilege  of  addressing  them 
selves  to  the  reader's  intimate  consciousness  and  of  beguiling 
him  into  the  illusion  that  their  written  thoughts  and  confes 
sions  are  his  very  own.  Of  such  favored  books,  beloved  and 
cherished  of  the  true  bed-reader,  are  the  great  essayists  or  lay 
preachers,  Montaigne,  Bacon,  Swift,  Addison,  Voltaire, 
Rousseau,  Rochefoucauld,  Macaulay,  Lamb,  Emerson,  Car- 
lyle,  Thackeray  (in  his  Lectures  and  Roundabouts),  Renan, 
Amiel — but  I  am  resolved  not  to  catalogue.  These  and  such 
as  these  are  emphatically  thinking  books,  fit  for  the  quiet 
commerce  of  the  midnight  pillow;  trusted  confessors  of  the 
soul,  through  whom  it  arrives  the  more  perfectly  to  know 
itself;  faithful  pilots  in  the  perplexed  voyage  of  life;  wise  and 


92  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

loving  friends  whose  fidelity  is  never  suspect  or  shaken; 
solemn  and  tender  counselors  who  give  us  their  mighty  hearts 
to  read ;  august  nuncios  that  deliver  the  messages  of  the  high 
gods. 

I  would  bar  all  modern  fiction,  books  of  the  hour — that 
swarm  of  summer  flies — all  trumpery  love  stories  founded  on 
the  longings  of  puberty  and  green-sickness,  all  works  on 
theology  (except  St.  Augustine),  political  histories,  cyclope 
dias,  scientific  treatises,  the  whole  accursed  tribe  of  world's 
condensed  or  canned  literatures  and  such  like  compilations, 
the  books  of  Hall  Caine,  Marie  Corelli  and  Andrew  Car 
negie,  newspapers — that  fell  brood  of  time-devourers — and 
magazines — those  pictured  inanities. 

After  this  summary  clearing  of  the  field,  the  task  of  selec 
tion  should  not  be  difficult ;  but  even  at  this  stage  the  prudent 
bed-reader  can  not  afford  to  go  it  blind. 

I  would  not  advise  books  of  a  violently  humorous  charac 
ter  more  recent  than  Rabelais,  Don  Quixote  or  Gil  Bias,  even 
though  I  may  here  seem  to  utter  treason  against  my  beloved 
Mark  Twain.  But  I  must  be  honest  with  my  readers — bed- 
readers,  of  course — and  truth  compels  me  to  say  that  a  re 
cumbent  position  is  not  favorable  to  much  exercise  of  the  dia 
phragm,  which  such  reading  calls  for.  I  took  Huck  Finn  to 
bed  with  me  once  when  I  lay  down  for  a  long  illness,  and 
hung  to  him  in  spite  of  the  doctor  and  the  nurse,  until  the 
happy  meeting  with  Tom  Sawyer,  when  I  wandered  off  into  a 
fantastic  world  where  fictions  and  realities  were  one.  The 
doctor  afterward  said  I  might  have  died  laughing  at  any  time, 
and  now  I  sometimes  think  that  it  wouldn't  have  been  such  a 
bad  thing — nay,  I  even  believe  that  one  couldn't  be  struck 
with  a  happier  kind  of  death.  .  .  . 

However,  I  must  insist  that  my  friends  shall  sit  up  to  Huck 
Finn,  the  Innocents  and  all  that  glorious  family  connection,  as 
also  to  their  co-sharers  in  a  smiling  immortality,  Mr.  Pick 
wick  and  Sam  Weller.  Nor  let  me  forget  another  genial  fig- 


A  PORT  OF  AGE 


93 


ure  who  has  taken  a  tribute  of  harmless  mirth  scarcely  infe 
rior  to  theirs  from  thousands  of  hearts  and  whom  they 
would  welcome  to  their  benign  fellowship — I  strongly  urge 
the  reader  who  would  have  a  care  of  his  health,  not  to  go  to 
bed  with  Mr.  Dooley. 

Next  to  the  great  essayists  mentioned  above,  the  poets 
offer  the  best  reading  for  night  and  the  bed — indeed  I  am  not 
sure  but  that  it  is  the  only  way  to  read  certain  poets. 

I  am  equally  fond  of  the  prose  and  the  poetry  of  Heine, 
and  think  he  furnishes  a  variety  of  entertainment  which,  on 
several  counts,  is  unmatched  by  any  writer.  But  Heine  gives 
no  rest,  and  one  is  soon  overborne  by  the  charges  of  his  wit 
and  the  unceasing  attacks  of  his  terrible  raillery. 

In  the  most  intimate  sense  Horace  is  (of  course)  without 
a  rival  as  a  companion  and  comforter  of  the  nightly  pillow. 
This  charming  Pagan  has  confessed  and  will  always  confess 
the  best  minds  of  the  Christian  world.  I  know  one  person 
who  owes  his  dearest  mental  joys,  his  best  nocturnal  consola 
tions  and  the  very  spring  of  hope  itself  to  the  little  great  man 
of  Rome.  But  he  must  be  read  in  the  original — a  condition 
which  unfortunately  disqualifies  too  many  readers.  The  songs 
of  Horace,  being  written  in  the  immortal  tongue  of  Rome, 
can  never  become  antiquated.  Though  the  Pontifex  and  the 
Virgin  ceased  hundreds  of  years  agoi  to  climb  the  Capitolian 
hill,  though  the  name  of  Anfidus  is  lost  where  its  brawling 
current  hurries  down,  still  that  treasure  of  genius  endures, 
more  lasting  than  brazen  column,  a  joy  and  a  refreshment 
ever  to  the  jaded  souls  of  men. 

Horace  has  the  supreme  and  almost  unique  fortune  to  ap 
pear  always  modern,  his  genius  being  of  the  finest  quality 
ever  known  and  happily  preserved  in  an  unchanging  tongue. 
He  is,  for  instance,  far  more  modern  than  Dante  and  dis 
tinctly  nearer  to  us  than  the  Elizabethans.  Alone,  he  consti 
tutes  a  sufficient  reason  for  the  admirable,  though  sometimes 
foolishly  censured,  practice  of  reading  abed. 


94  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

I  do  not  care  to  read  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  betwixt  the 
sheets — it  seems  a  piece  of  coxcombry  to  coolly  degust  the 
accumulated  horrors  of  Macbeth  and  Lear  while  lolling  on 
your  back  and  sybaritically  exploring  the  softest  places  in 
your  downy  kingdom — truly  a  case  of  what's  Hecuba  to  him 
or  he  to  Hecuba  ?  But  I  find  it  quite  different  with  the  Poems, 
which  (I  may  remark)  are  too  frequently  overlooked  even  by 
those  who  pride  themselves  on  knowing  their  Shakespeare. 
Lately,  through  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Rolfe,  I  so  re-read 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets  and  for  the  first  time  arrived  at  some 
thing  like  a  true  sense  and  appreciation  of  their  deep  organ 
melodies,  and  at  least  a  partial  understanding  of  the  terrible 
lawless  passion  which  inspired  those  lavish  outpourings  of 
guilty  love  and  remorse  that  witness  forever  the  glory  and 
the  shame  of  Shakespeare. 

No  doubt,  the  learned  Dr.  Rolfe  had  to  sit  up  to  write  his 
invaluable  commentary,  with  a  thorny  desk  at  his  breast; 
how  much  more  fortunate  I  to  digest  it  with  unlabored  impar 
tiality,  now  and  then  calmly  approving  or,  it  may  be,  contro 
verting  the  Doctor,  but  without  heat ;  reclining  at  my  ease,  in 
a  silence  and  abstraction  so  perfect  that  fancy  could  almost 
hear  the  living  voices  of  the  actors  in  this  strange,  repellant 
drama  of  the  greatest  of  poets — stranger  and  more  darkly 
perplexed  than  any  which  his  genius  gave  to  the  stage — and 
the  mind  overleaped  three  full  centuries  to  that  memorable 
English 

"Spring 

When  proud-pied  April  dress'd  in  all  his  trim 
Did  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him !" 

Will  Dr.  Rolfe  prepare  more  of  these  pleasant  books?  I 
profess  myself  only  too  desirous  of  going  to  bed  to  read 
them.  . 

Letters  of  memorable  men  and  women  are  among  the 
pleasantest  and  most  profitable  reading  for  the  bed.  There  is 


A  PORT  OF  AGE  95 

so  great  a  plenty  of  such  books  that  I  need  not  be  at  pains  to 
specify.  I  may  say,  however,  that  to  my  humor  Lamb's  let 
ters  are  the  rarest  delidae  deliciarum,  the  most  enjoyable 
reading,  for  this  purpose  in  the  world. 

Dickens's  letters  are  valuable  beyond  those  of  most  later 
English  moderns  for  their  brave  and  hopeful  spirit. 

Books  of  autobiography  are  good,  so  that  they  be  not  too 
veracious,  like  Franklin's — a  defect  which  pertaineth  not  to 
the  far  preferable  Messer  Cellini.  Memoirs  and  personal 
chronicles  I  would  not  forbid,  though  the  Pepysian  hunt  has 
been  run  to  death,  out  of  compliment  to  the  modern  fashion 
of  glorifying  the  Indecent  Past,  and  is  too  often  the  mark  of 
snobbery  and  a  vulgar  soul.  A  man  shall  not  leave  the  empy 
rean  of  the  poets  to  put  his  eye  to  chamber  keyholes  and  his 
nose  to  chamber  pots  with  Samuel  Pepys.  .  .  . 

Still,  I  would  not  deny  that  there  be  some  engaging  scoun 
drels,  like  Cagliostro  and  the  before  mentioned  Cellini,  with 
whom  one  may  have  profitable  commerce  in  bed — a  thing 
that  during  the  lives  of  these  worthies  never  chanced  to  any 
man  or,  more  especially,  any  woman. 

But  enough  for  the  present. 


On  Letters. 

HE  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world  to  receive  is  a 
good  letter. 

Our  dearest  literary  joys  are  not  to  be  weighed 
in  comparison;  indeed  they  are  not  at  all  of  the 
argument,  for  we  share  them  with  many.  But  a 
letter — a  true  letter  I  would  say — belongs  to  us  in  an  inti 
mate  and  peculiar  sense;  something  in  ourselves  has  sum 
moned  it,  and  perhaps  the  deepest  source  of  our  pleasure  is, 
that  it  could  not  have  been  written  to  another. 

For  it  takes  two  to  make  a  true  letter — one  to  inspire  and 
one  to  write  it ;  one  to  summon  and  one  to  send. 

Such  a  letter  is  the  child  of  love,  and  we  rightly  hold  our 
selves  blessed  for  it.  A  few  such  letters — none  of  us  can  ex 
pect  many — make  shining  epochs  in  our  lives. 

But  these  letters  are  of  the  rarest,  and  I  would  now  speak 
rather  of  such  as  we  may  not  too  uncommonly  hope  to  re 
ceive,  supposing  (egotistically)  we  have  that  in  us  which  has 
grace  to  summon  them. 

A  genuine  letter  is  the  best  gift  and  proof  of  friendship. 
No  man  can  write  it  who  is  only  half  or  three-quarters  your 
friend ;  he  might  give  you  money — this  he  could  not  give. 

I  have  sometimes  been  convinced  that  a  man  was  heartily 
my  friend  until  I  received  a  letter  from  him  which  showed 
me  my  error.  Not  indeed  that  such  was  his  desire,  nor  could 
I  point  out  the  word  or  phrase  that  enlightened  me.  I  knew 
— that  was  all. 

This  will,  perhaps,  seem  the  very  opposite  of  the  truth  to 
persons  who  have  never  considered  the  matter  deeply  and 
who  think  nothing  is  so  easily  given  and  obtained  as  a  letter. 
But  I  am  writing  for  those  who  understand. 


ON  LETTERS  97 

If  you  have  ever  been  deceived  in  your  dreams  of  friend 
ship,  look  now  over  those  old  letters  you  kept,  and  you  will 
wonder  how  you  could  have  cheated  yourself;  the  truth  you 
were  once  blind  to,  stares  out  from  every  written  page.  It 
was  there  always,  but  your  self-love  would  not  see. 

Into  every  real  letter  the  soul  of  the  writer  passes.  It  is 
this  that  gives  a  fabulous  value  to  the  letters  of  great  and 
famous  persons  concerning  whom  the  world  is  ever  curious — 
makers  of  history,  poets,  warriors,  kings  and  criminals, 
queens  and  courtesans,  all  who  for  good  or  evil  cause  have 
gained  a  lasting  renown.  The  collectors  are  justified  by  a 
psychology  which  few  of  them  can  penetrate. 

The  letters  of  some  persons  who  have  lived  and  of  whom 
we  possess  not  a  scrap  of  writing,  would  be  absolutely  price 
less. 

Is  there,  for  example,  enough  worth  in  money  to  estimate 
the  value  of  a  letter  written  by  the  hand  of  JESUS  ?  Can  you 
imagine  anything  that  would  so  thrill  the  world  ?  .  .  . 

Or,  to  take  a  lower  and  more  probable  instance:  A  First 
Folio  of  Shakespeare  is  worth  several  thousand  dollars,  and 
the  owner  of  one  never  has  to  haggle  for  his  price — the  book 
itself  is  the  ready  money.  The  number  of  copies  in  the  world 
is  accurately  known,  as  well  as  the  fortunate  owners.  Some 
rich  men  are  content  with  the  distinction  of  possessing  this 
rare  volume  and  they  would  like  to  have  the  fact  mentioned 
on  their  tombstone.  Well,  a  genuine  letter  of  Shakespeare's 
— say  to  "Mr.  W.  H.,"  for  example — would  probably  be 
worth  more  than  all  the  First  Folios  in  existence.  True,  the 
poet  had  hardly  a  thought  or  sentiment  or  idea  that  he  did 
not  express  somewhere  in  his  plays  or  poems.  No  matter— 
these  were  of  public  note,  in  the  way  of  his  calling;  what  the 
world  wants  is  a  look  into  the  innermost  soul  of  the  man 
Shakespeare,  who  has  escaped  amid  the  glory  of  the  poet.  A 
letter !  a  letter ! 

Charles  Lamb  offers  a  notable  proof  of  the  superiority  of 


98  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

genuine  letters  over  mere  literary  compositions.  He  wrote 
many  letters  to  his  friends  from  his  high  stool  in  Leadenhall 
street;  letters  that  have  never  been  equaled  for  quaint  humor, 
shrewd-glancing  observation,  kindly  comment  on  men  and 
manners,  and,  above  all,  the  intimate  revelation  of  one  of 
the  most  charming  personalities  ever  known.  Being  thrifty 
in  a  literary  sense,  and  by  no  means  a  ready  writer — he  speaks 
of  composing  with  "slow  pain" — it  was  his  habit  to  make  his 
personal  letters  do  a  double  service  by  turning  them  into 
essays  for  the  press — and,  generally,  spoiling  them.  At  any 
rate,  I  prefer  the  letters. 

The  truth  behind  this  matter  is,  that  if  a  man  be  capable, 
and  make  a  practice  of,  writing  many  good  letters,  he  will 
surely  fall  off  in  other  lines  of  literary  effort.  Renan  discov 
ered  this  early  in  his  career  and  was  very  sparing  of  letters 
which  took  anything  out  of  him  in  a  literary  way.  One 
might  call  this  sort  of  economy,  keeping  the  honey  for  the 
hive.  It  is  not  a  bad  plan  in  a  thrifty  sense,  but  this  article 
can  not  sympathize  with  it,  as  it  makes  for  the  poverty  of 
letters. 

Still,  the  fact  doesn't  matter  so  much,  as  literary  people  of 
the  professional  sort  are  generally  bad  letter-writers,  for  the 
reason  that  they  bring  to  letter-writing  the  dregs  of  their 
minds — saving  their  spirit,  grace,  naturalness  and  sincerity 
for  the  shop.  I  have  been  astonished  by  the  inept,  spiritless 
letters  of  two  or  three  authors  of  my  acquaintance  who  are 
famous  for  their  wit  and  brilliancy.  One  of  them  tells  me 
that  it  is  easier  for  him  to  write  an  article  of  two  thousand 
words  than  a  letter  of  two  hundred.  The  assured  audience 
and  the  certain  compensation  draw  his  power,  but  the  letter 
doesn't  seem  worth  while — and  isn't  when  he's  done  with  it. 

Still,  there  are  exceptions,  even  among  literary  persons,  and 
especially  among  women  who,  literary  or  unliterary,  write 
the  best  letters  in  the  world.  Bless  their  kind  hearts  and  busy 
fertile  minds !  Should  I  ever  be  able  to  acknowledge  the  debt 


ON  LETTERS  99 

I  owe  them  ? — To  pay  it  were  not  possible,  even  in  dreams. 
There  is  dear  UE.  W.  W.",  who  came,  a  late  blessing  into  my 
life,  just  when  I  sorely  needed  such  a  friend,  and  who  sends 
me  frequently  of  her  rich  store  of  wisdom  and  sweetness  and 
strength,  though  her  pen  knows  no  rest  and  the  publishers  will 
not  be  denied.  Strange! — I  find  in  these  gracious  letters, 
alive  with  the  breath  of  her  spirit,  something  that  even  she  is 
unable  to  express  in  her  public  writings — or  is  it  the  vitality 
of  the  personal  note,  the  instant  flow  from  mind  to  mind,  that 
makes  me  think  so?  ...  There  is  charming  "T.  G.",  more 
beautiful  even  than  her  poetry,  who  writes  too  seldom, 
(thriftiest  she  of  the  daughters  of  the  Muse!),  but  each  of 
whose  joyous  letters  fills  with  light  the  happy  week  of  its 
arrival.  And  "D.  H.",  who  was  not  long  ago  "D.  M." — 
what  pleasure  have  I  not  received  from  her  demure  gayety 
and  the  sweet  cordial  note  of  her  letters !  .  .  .  And  "E. 
R.",  who  was  even  more  recently  "E.  H."  (ah,  happy  he  who 
won  her  gracious  youth ! )  — in  what  book  shall  I  find  a  hint 
of  her  tricksy  humor  and  bewitching  pertness?  .  .  .  And 
"B.  A.",  whose  pensive  spirit  ever  seeking  the  Unknown, 
often  startles  me  with  its  clear  divinations — the  privilege  of 
the  white-souled.  .  .  .  And  "T.  S.",  whose  prattling  pen 
has  given  me  cheer  when  weary  and  cast  down,  and  who  is  so 
near  to  me  in  faith  and  sympathy,  though  I  have  never  looked 
into  her  candid  eyes.  And  "S.  B.",  the  sweet  silent  Quakeress, 
who  too  rarely  writes,  and  the  thought  of  whom  often  lies 
like  a  sinless  peace  upon  me.  But  let  me  cite  no  more  lest  I 
tempt  the  envious  fates  by  a  rash  disclosure  of  my  joys. 

All  these  most  fragrant  friendships,  enriching  my  else 
flowerless  life  with  beauty  and  grace  and  precious  consola 
tion, — giving  me  indeed  the  rarer  life  of  the  spirit, — do  I, 
though  undeserving,  hold  .  .  .  through  letters. 


Cbe  Kings. 

T  IS  still  summer  with  the  kings,  God  save  them ! 
— a  summer  that  has  lasted  for  many  of  them 
over  a  thousand  years.  They  make  as  brave  a 
show  to-day  as  ever  in  the  past.  It  is  said  they 
are  neither  loved  nor  feared  so  much  as  of  old, 
and  I  know  not  how  that  may  be ;  but  of  this  I  am  sure,  that 
the  glory  of  kings  is  the  envy  of  the  world.  The  sunlight 
gilds  their  palaces  and  royal  capitals  and  strikes  through  the 
many-hued  windows  of  their  cathedrals  in  which  they  deign 
to  accept  a  homage  second  only  to  that  paid  to  Divinity  itself. 
God  is  in  His  heaven,  and  they  are  on  their  hundred  thrones. 
And  these  thrones  are  quite  as  safe  to-day  as  in  the  olden 
time  when  few  or  none  doubted  that  the  kings  were  set  upon 
them  by  Divine  Will.  Thousands  of  armed  men  watch  day 
and  night  to  guard  their  peace.  Cannon  flank  the  entrances 
to  their  castles  and  palaces.  The  life  of  the  king  is  the  chief 
care  and  preoccupation  of  every  people — many  starve  that  he 
may  live  as  befits  his  royal  state — many  die  in  battle  that  his 
throne  may  be  secure.  Yet  it  is  true,  as  in  the  olden  time,  that 
a  king  falls  now  and  then  under  the  assassin's  hand ;  and  the 
wisdom  of  man  has  never  rightly  explained  this  seeming  fail 
ure  of  the  providence  of  God.  But  there  is  a  lot  for  kings  as 
for  common  men,  and  accidents  prove  nothing.  Kingship  is 
still  the  best  job  in  the  world — and  there  are  no  resignations. 
Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true,  an  abdication  has  to  be  declared 
on  account  of  the  imbecility  of  some  crowned  head — but 
think  how  long  kings  have  been  breeding  kings !  What  won 
der  that  the  distemper  should  now  and  then  break  out  in  the 
royal  stud? 

It  is  summer  with  the  kings.  They  have  never  been  a  cost- 


THE  KINGS  101 

Her  luxury  than  they  are  to-day,  except  that  they  are  not  suf 
fered  to  make  war  so  often.  Yet  the  world  continues  to  pay 
the  price  of  kings  with  gladness,  and  though  we  have  heard  so 
much  of  the  rising  tide  of  democracy,  it  has  not  wet  the  foot 
of  a  single  throne  in  our  time.  No  doubt  it  will  sweep  over 
them  all  some  day,  but  our  children's  children  shall  not  see  it. 
There  is  hardly  a  king  in  Europe  whose  tenure  is  not  quite  as 
good  as  that  of  our  glorious  Republic.  Kingship  is  even  a 
better  risk  than  when  Canute  set  his  chair  in  the  sands  of  the 
shore.  Wrap  it  up  in  what  shape  of  mortality  you  please — let 
it  look  out  boldly  from  the  eyes  of  a  real  king,  as  rarely  hap 
pens  ;  let  it  peer  from  under  the  broken  forehead  of  a  fool  or 
ogle  in  the  glances  of  a  hoary  old  Silenus, — it  is  still  the  one 
thing  in  the  world  which  absolutely  compels  reverence.  Other 
forms  of  authority  are  discounted  more  and  more;  the  Pope 
who  once  had  rule  over  kings,  sees  his  sovereignty  dwindled 
to  a  garden's  breadth;  the  chiefs  of  republics  wield  a  preca 
rious  power,  often  without  respect:  the  glory  that  hedges  a 
king  remains  undiminished  and  unaltered.  The  kings  owe 
much  to  God,  and  God  owes  something  to  the  kings — when 
the  world  shall  have  seen  the  last  of  these,  it  will  perhaps  dis 
card  the  old  idea  of  Divinity.  But,  as  I  have  said  already, 
that  will  take  a  long,  long  time — so  long  that  it  is  quite  use 
less  to  form  theories  on  the  subject. 

It  is  summer  with  the  kings.  Nowhere  such  radiant,  golden 
summer  as  in  royalty-loving  Germany.  There  big  thrones  and 
little  thrones — such  a  lot  of  them ! — are  all  sound  and  safe — 
sounder  and  safer  than  some  of  the  royal  heads  that  peer  out 
from  them.  There  the  play  of  kingship  has  been  played  with 
the  best  success  to  an  audience  that  seldom  criticizes  and  never 
gets  tired  nor  steals  away  between  the  acts.  If  the  good  God 
composed  this  play, — as  so  many  people  piously  believe, — 
then  He  must  hold  the  honest  Germans  in  special  favor — as 
an  author  He  can  not  but  be  flattered.  That  he  does  so  hold 


102  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

them  is  evident  from  his  permitting  them  to  triumph  over 
those  incomparably  better  actors,  the  French. 

This  charming,  prosaic,  joyous,  antiquated,  picturesque, 
yet  somewhat  dull  pageant  of  royalty  goes  on  in  Germany 
forever.  If  it  ever  came  to  a  stop  for  but  one  day,  we  may  be 
sure  the  honest  sun  that  has  beamed  approvingly  upon  it  for 
centuries  would  do  likewise.  The  people  fully  believe  that 
God  wrote  the  play,  and  they  cling  the  more  fondly  to  the 
belief  for  the  reason  aforesaid — that  it  is,  like  themselves,  a 
little  dull.  And  what  matters  the  sameness  of  the  plot  or  the 
occasional  incapacity  of  the  leading  actors,  since  the  proper 
ties  are  as  rich  as  ever  and  the  stage-setting  worthy  of  the 
best  representations  of  the  past? 

God  is  the  favorite  playwright  of  the  German  people.  And 
never  has  He  given  them  a  prettier  interlude  than  the  mar 
riage  t'other  day  of  the  Crown  Prince  and  the  Duchess  Ce 
celia.   This  charming  spectacle  moved  the  admiration  of  the 
world  and  the  envy  of  republics.   It  was  a  gala  show  of  roy 
alties  and  nobilities.    At  the  grand  performance  in  the  Royal 
Opera  House  in  Berlin,  seventy  princes  and  princesses  sur 
rounded  the  imperial  family — German  highnesses  are  reso 
lutely  opposed  to  race-suicide  and  even  take  unnecessary  mor 
ganatic  precautions  against  it.   The  display  of  diamonds  and 
jewels,  of  exquisite  laces  and  gorgeous  millinery,  by  the  royal 
and  noble  ladies,  out-tongued  the  praise  of  a  hundred  pens. 
Finer  birds,  more  beautiful  plumage,  have  not  been  seen  since 
the  last  days  of  Versailles.    The  Empress  Augusta  Victoria, 
we  read,  wore  a  necklace  of  fabulous  gems — (it  is  whispered 
that  she  is  grown  too  fat  for  the  War  Lord's  taste).    The 
princesses  vied  with  each  other  in  exhibiting  the  wealth  of 
their  caskets.    But  the  royal  bride  was  unadorned,  says  the 
report,  usave  by  her  personal  graces."  What  a  pity  that  these 
graces  were  not  the  first  to  kindle  the  heart  of  the  Crown 
Prince,  who  is  known  to  have  had  a  passion  or  two  of  the 
theatre ! 


THE  KINGS  103 

At  the  wedding  in  the  palace  chapel  and  the  after-festivi 
ties  in  the  White  Hall,  there  was  such  a  crush  of  royalties, 
highnesses,  nobilities  and  excellencies,  that  the  minute  eti 
quette  of  precedence  was  preserved  only  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  It  is  recorded,  however,  that  nothing  occurred  to 
scandalize  the  Hohenzollern  traditions  or  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven. 

The  gifts  to  these  young  persons  (who  have  had  the  great 
kindness  to  be  born)  beggared  all  description.  They  poured 
in  from  all  the  Prussian  provinces,  from  all  the  potentates  of 
Europe,  from  the  tattooed  and  savage  sovereigns  of  the 
South  Seas,  from  the  long-skulled  monarchs  of  the  Melane- 
sian  archipelago,  from  kings  whose  royal  councils  are  punc 
tuated  by  the  jabber  of  apes.  Japan,  at  the  very  moment 
when  she  was  conquering  a  foremost  place  among  nations, 
sent,  with  exquisite  taste,  a  pair  of  antique  silver  flower 
bowls.  The  Sick  Man  of  Europe  begged  to  be  remembered 
by  the  great  and  good  friend  who  has  nursed  him  through 
some  bad  dreams.  Even  the  Pope,  who  sees  in  that  mar 
riage  and  all  connected  with  it  the  triumph  of  Luther  and 
the  work  of  the  Devil,  failed  not  of  his  devoir  to  a  brother 
sovereign. 

Still,  these  foreign  tributes  were  but  as  a  drop  to  the  deep 
sea  of  German  loyalty  and  love.  For  while  one  part  of  the 
nation  worships  a  Roman  Catholic  God  and  the  other  a 
Protestant  God,  both  agree  in  paying  homage  to  the  throne 
which  supports  each  altar.  So  honest  Hans  sweated  to  express 
the  fulness  of  his  joy  and  duty.  Substantial  were  his  gifts.  A 
hundred  loyal  cities  joined  to  offer  a  bridal  gift  of  a  silver 
service  of  a  thousand  pieces — Hans  will  sweat  three  years  in 
the  making  -of  it  and  longer  maybe  in  paying  for  it.  No  mat 
ter — payment  is  the  proof  of  loyalty.  When  was  there  ever  a 
king  or  a  god  that  was  not  in  constant  need  of  money  ?  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  is  summer  with  the  kings  and  never  have  they 
seemed  safer  on  their  hundred  thrones.  But  now  as  ever  in 


104  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

the  long  story  of  kingship,  their  safety  lies  not  so  much  in 
their  castles  and  forts,  their  armies  and  sentinels,  their  myriad 
spies  and  their  hundred-handed  police.  Not  so  much  in  these 
things  as  in  the  sufferance  of  the  patient  people  and  also  their 
childlike  enjoyment  of  the  old  play. 

Is  God  the  author  of  this  play?  Many  a  man  believes  it  in 
Germany  whose  ears  are  not  longer  than  they  should  be. 
And  it  seems  certain  that  the  reputation  of  God  as  a  play 
wright  will  last  longer  in  Germany  than  elsewhere.  The 
royal  and  noble  claque  is  thoroughly  organized  and  never 
misses  its  cue.  Besides,  many  small  but  worthy  people  — 
prompters,  scene-shifters,  stage  carpenters,  costumers,  supers 
and  other  gens  du  theatre  —  draw  their  living  from  the  great 
comedy  and  would  speedily  come  to  grief  if  by  any  chance  the 
public  should  tire  of  it.  So  the  good  God  is  concerned  for 
these  honest  people  as  much  as  for  his  literary  repute  —  and 
the  show  goes  on.  From  time  to  time  the  end  of  the  play  is 
predicted,  but  it  has  had  a  famous  run  and  it  will  surely  keep 
the  boards  —  while  there  is  summer  with  the  kings. 


Some  time  ago  I  wrote  that  it  was  summer  with  the  kings, 
but  wondrous  is  the  change  wrought  within  a  few  short 
months.  Now  instead  of  golden  summer,  with  the  courtier 
sun  gilding  their  palaces  and  domes  and  towers,  and  all  the 
world  eager  to  win  a  smile  of  them,  a  ray  of  royal  favor,  — 
there  is  winter,  black  with  dread,  lurid  with  rebellion,  and 
sinister  with  every  threat  of  treason  and  anarchy. 

Though  the  kings  yet  hold  some  show  of  sovereignty,  they 
are  as  prisoners  in  their  own  strong  places,  beleaguered  by  the 
victorious  people  and  feeling  no  trust  in  the  very  guards  of 
their  person.  The  grand  palaces  are  closed  up  and  deserted, 
and  the  splendid  cathedrals,  in  which  so  often  the  Te  Deum 
has  been  raised  in  celebration  of  some  royal  victory,  are  now 
dark  and  silent,  save  for  the  threnody  of  mourning  bells. 


THE  KINGS  105 

Yes,  it  is  winter  with  the  kings.  Panic,  terror  and  wild- 
eyed  unrest  hold  the  place  of  that  mailed  security  which  has 
sate  at  scornful  ease  there  during  a  thousand  years.  The 
kings  look  fearfully  forth  from  their  strong  towers  and  cas 
tles,  marking  the  flames  of  revolution  that  creep  steadily 
nearer  and  hearing  the  distant  shouts  of  the  advancing  army 
of  rebellion.  No  heart  of  grace  do  the  kings  find  in  the  thick 
ness  of  the  encompassing  walls  or  the  yet  unbroken  ranks  of 
their  soldiery.  For  every  wind  is  now  the  courier  of  some 
new  treason  or  blow  at  their  power.  Fealty  is  become  a  snare 
that  watches  its  chance  to  kill  or  betray — he  that  rides  forth 
with  the  royal  command  shall  turn  traitor  ere  yet  he  hath 
passed  the  shadow  of  the  towers.  It  is  marvelous  how  loy 
alty  deserts  a  falling  king ! 

Come  now  the  priests  in  their  most  gorgeous  vestments 
and  bearing  their  most  sacred  images  to  cheer  and  console 
the  dejected  monarch.  Of  their  fidelity  he  is  at  least  assured, 
for  to  him  and  him  alone  they  owe  the  grandeur  of  their 
state.  But  alas !  what  are  priests  to  a  king  who  has  lost  his 
people? — nay,  they  but  remind  him  in  his  bitter  despair  of 
that  Power  which  "hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 
seat  and  hath  exalted  them  of  low  degree."  Idly  as  he  had 
often  marked  the  solemn  words,  they  come  back  to  him  now 
with  a  terrible  weight  of  meaning.  Almost  he  could  bring 
himself  to  spit  upon  these  fawning  priests  who  had  ever 
feared  to  show  him  the  naked  purport  of  the  accusing  text 
that  now  pierces  his  heart  like  a  sword.  And  he  turns  away 
from  their  mummeries  lest  he  should  cry  out  against  the 
treachery  of  their  God  and  his  who  has  thus  abandoned  him 
in  his  need. 

It  is  winter  with  the  kings.  That  old  habit  of  loyalty  and 
obedience  which  held  their  thrones  as  if  mortised  and  ten 
oned  in  granite,  has  vanished  in  an  hour.  Oh,  the  kings  can 
not  see  how  long  it  took  to  mine  and  shatter  their  rock  of 
sovereignty,  and  they  blindly  regard  as  the  madness  of  a 


106  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

moment  what  has  been  the  patient  labor  of  centuries.  Do 
not  flout  them  in  their  fallen  state  by  telling  them  that  no 
hands  wrought  so  busily  at  the  work  of  destruction  as  their 
own.  Have  pity  on  the  humbled  kings ! 

But  wait ! — all  can  not  yet  be  lost.  Call  in  the  leaders  of 
the  people  and  let  us  pledge  our  kingly  word  anew  to  grant 
the  things  they  ask.  'Tis  but  a  moment's  humiliation  and 
the  fools  will  be  content  and  huzza  themselves  back  into  our 
royal  favor.  Think  you  we  do  not  know  the  cattle?  Ho, 
there ! — let  the  varlets  be  brought  into  our  presence. 

Alas,  Sire ! — it  is  now  too  late.  Hard  though  it  be  to  credit, 
the  besotted  people — pardon,  Sire,  for  reporting  the  accursed 
heresy — have  at  last  abandoned  that  to  which  they  fondly 
clung  in  anguish  and  misery  and  trial,  against  even  the  evi 
dence  and  reason  of  their  brute  minds,  and  in  spite  of  all  that 
your  royal  ancestors  could  do  to  alienate  and  destroy — their 
faith  in  kings ! 

But  this  is  madness ! — it  can  not  be.  What  will  the  infat 
uate,  misguided  wretches  do  without  their  sovereign?  An 
swer  us  that ! 

Craving  your  gracious  pardon,  Sire,  they  will  do  as  well  as 
they  can.  And  from  what  we,  your  humble  councillors,  can 
learn,  they  expect  to  make  shift  with  a  saucy  jade  wear 
ing  a  Phrygian  cap,  whom  they  name  Liberty ! 

It  is  winter  with  the  kings,  but  summer  with  the  peoples 
who  have  waited  long  enough  for  their  turn.  Lustily  are 
they  girded  up  and  made  ready  for  the  gleaning.  Boldly  and 
unitedly  they  march  upon  the  ripe  and  waiting  fields  which, 
so  often  sowed  with  their  blood  and  sweat,  they  now  claim 
for  their  own.  God  grant  they  may  bring  the  harvest  home  f 


Cbc  Song  Chat  is  Solomon's. 


| HERE  is  always  a  Jewish  renaissance  and  that  is 
why  we  have  lately  been  talking  about  the  beau 
ty  of  the  Jewess. 

It  is  a  great  theme  and  there  is  none  other  in 
the  world  charged  with  more  sweet  and  terrible 
poetry. 

The  beauty  of  the  Jewish  women  is  the  eternal  witness  of 
the  great  epic  of  the  Bible.  If  that  divine  Book  were  to  be 
lost  in  some  unthinkable  catastrophe,  it  could  be  re-written 
wholly  from  the  lips  and  eyes  of  Jewish  beauty. 

In  no  long  time  we  should  have  again  the  complete  stories 
of  Sarah  and  the  daughters  of  Lot  (those  forward  but  prov 
ident  young  persons)  ;  of  tender-eyed  Leah,  of  Rebekah  and 
Rachel,  sweet  rivals  in  love;  of  Deborah  and  Hagar  and 
Jael ;  of  Ruth,  that  pensive  figure  whom  so  many  generations 
have  strained  to  see,  "standing  breast-high  amid  the  corn;'1 
of  Rahab  the  wise  harlot  and  Jezebel  the  furious ;  of  Tamar 
who  played  her  father-in-law  Judah  so  shrewdly  wanton  a 
trick;  of  Esther  who  fired  the  heart  of  the  Persic  king,  saving 
honest  Mordecai  a  painful  ascension  and  much  slaughter  of 
the  Chosen  People ;  of  Susanna,  whom  the  elders  surprised  in 
her  bath,  not  the  first  nor  the  last  instance  of  the  folly  of  old 
men :  of  the  nameless  wife  of  Uriah,  the  lust  for  whose  per 
fect  body  drove  the  holy  king  David  to  blood-guiltiness;  of 
the  Shulamite  (also  lacking  a  name)  whom  Solomon,  son  of 
David,  has  sung  to  the  world's  ravishment;  lastly — why  not? 
—of  her  who  has  glorified  Israel  among  the  Gentiles  and 
hath  honor  beyond  all  the  daughters  of  the  earth, — Mary  of 
Bethlehem. 

In  this  way,  I  repeat,  the  Bible  could  easily  be  put  together 


io8  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

again — it  can  never  perish  while  a  Jewish  woman  remains 
on  the  earth. 

There  never  was  a  book  written  (worthy  of  the  name) 
but  that  was  more  or  less  directly  inspired  by  a  woman. 
Cherchez  la  femme  is  the  true  theory  of  literary  origins. 

This  is  eminently  true  of  the  Bible  with  which  women 
have  had  (and  still  have)  more  to  do  than  with  any  other 
book  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

The  beauty  of  Jewish  women  is  a  wine  that  needs  no 
bush ;  it  is  the  sacred  treasure  that  kept  alive  the  hope  of  the 
race  during  the  weary  ages  of  shame  and  bondage.  But  for 
that  jealously  guarded  talisman,  the  Jew  would  long  ago 
have  lost  both  place  and  name  upon  the  earth. 

Much  of  the  old,  consecrated,  fatidic  character  attaches  to 
the  Jewish  woman  of  the  better  class,  even  in  this  faithless 
day.  She  is  honored  above  the  wife  of  the  Gentile  and  she 
is  conscious  of  a  mission  which  fills  her  with  the  pride  of  an 
immemorial  race.  One  fancies  that  no  other  woman  either 
inspires  or  returns  love  in  such  measure  as  the  Jewess;  that 
she  has  some  profound  joys  to  give  whose  secret  she  alone 
possesses.  The  Jew  has  found  in  his  home  compensations  for 
all  the  cruelty  and  ignominy  which  he  has  had  to  suffer  from 
the  world. 

I  admire  true  Jewish  beauty  so  much  that  I  would  make  a 
slight  discrimination.  Not  all  the  Grecian  women  were 
Helens  and  it  need  not  be  said  that  the  highest  type  of  beauty 
among  Jewish  women  is  less  often  seen  than  praised.  In 
truth,  the  rule  holds  good  here,  that  great  beauty  and  great 
ugliness  are  found  side  by  side. 

One  reason  for  this  is,  undoubtedly,  the  bad  taste  of  the 
average  Jew,  who  can  not  have  his  women  fat  enough  and 
who,  therefore,  encourages  such  departures  from  the  ideal 
standard  as  serve  to  caricature  the  natural  beauty  and  comeli 
ness  of  Hebrew  women.  I  believe  there  are  Jews  who  would 
like  to  grow  their  women  in  a  tub,  according  to  the  mediaeval 


THE  SONG  THAT  IS  SOLOMON'S         109 

method  of  producing  monstrosities.  This  bad  taste  the  Jew 
comes  by  as  a  part  of  his  Oriental  inheritance — the  Turk 
similarly  fattens  his  women  with  all  kinds  of  sweetmeats  and 
suets.  On  account  of  this  vicious  taste  among  too  many 
Jews,  one  often  sees  women  of  hideous  corpulence  at  thirty 
who  were  types  of  ideal  beauty  at  sixteen.  Flesh  is  a  good 
thing,  but  the  Jew  should  not  seek  to  suffocate  himself  in  it, 
like  Clarence  in  his  Malmsey  butt.  And  pus  is  not  pulchri 
tude. 

Let  the  Jewish  woman,  therefore,  vigilantly  cherish  the 
wonderful  beauty  which  has  come  down  to  her  from  those 
historic  sisters  of  her  race  whom  kings  desired  with  a  pas 
sion  that  kindled  the  land  to  war,  whom  prophets  and  sages 
glorified,  with  whom  heroes  and  martyrs  walked  and  con 
cerning  whom  God  Himself  has  written  many  of  the  best 
pages  in  His  own  Book.  Let  her  keep  as  near  as  she  can  to 
the  ideal  of  loveliness  which  the  great  king,  drunk  with 
beauty  and  rapture,  pictured  thousands  of  years  ago  in  the 
lineaments  of  his  Beloved: — 

Thy  lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet  and  thy  speech  is 
comely;  thy  temples  are  like  a  piece  of  pomegranate  within 
thy  locks. 

Thy  two  breasts  are  like  two  young  roes  that  are  twins 
which  feed  among  the  lilies. 

Thy  lips,  O  my  spouse,  drop  as  the  honey  comb;  honey 
and  milk  are  under  thy  tongue  and  the  smell  of  thy  garments 
is  as  the  smell  of  Lebanon. 

Thy  neck  is  like  a  tower  of  ivory.  Thine  head  upon  thee 
is  like  Carmel,  and  the  hair  of  thine  head  like  purple :  the 
king  is  held  in  the  galleries.  How  fair  and  how  pleasant  art 
thou,  O  love,  for  delights ! 


Dining  with  Schopenhauer. 


WAS  dining  lately  at  Mouquin's,  alone.  You 
had  better  not  so  dine  there,  unless  you  have 
reached  that  melancholy  climacteric,  ua  certain 
age"-  — (I  do  not  plead  guilty  myself).  It  is 
not  good  for  men  to  dine  alone  at  Mouquin's 


and  it  is  even  worse  for  Mouquin's.  All  here  is  planned  for 
sociability  and  the  sexes — the  menu  is  a  paean  of  sex  as 
frankly  declarative  as  a  poem  of  Walt  Whitman's;  the 
wines,  the  suave,  lightfooted  French  waiters  (really  French), 
seeing  all  and  nothing,  the  softly  refulgent  electric  bulbs, 
the  very  genius  of  the  place,  all  bespeak  that  potent  instinct 
which  harks  back  to  the  morning  of  the  world.  One  sees 
it  in  the  smallest  matters  of  detail  and  arrangement.  Else 
where  there  is  room  and  entertainment  for  the  selfish  male, 
but  here — go  to!  The  tables  are  not  adapted  for  solitary 
dining;  at  the  very  tiniest  of  them  there  is  room  for  two. 
An  arrangement  that  would  have  moved  the  irony  of  Schop 
enhauer  and  signalizes  the  grand  talent  of  Monsieur  Mou- 
quin.  To  conclude,  a  solitary  diner  is  an  embarrassment,  a 
reproach,  a  fly  in  the  ointment  of  Monsieur  Mouquin.  I  was 
all  three  to  him  lately,  but  I  make  him  my  most  profound 
apologies — it  shall  not  occur  again.  Why,  I  am  now  to  tell. 
I  was  dining  at  Mouquin's  alone,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
spirit  of  Schopenhauer  suddenly  descended  upon  me,  who  had 
been  there  so  often,  joyous  and  joyously  companioned.  The 
waiter  took  my  order  with  a  veiled  hint  of  disapproval  in 
his  manner.  He  forgot,  too,  that  he  was  of  Mouquin's  and 
therefore,  anteriorly  of  Paris — he  spoke  English  far  too 
well  for  the  credit  of  the  house.  At  Mouquin's,  you  know, 
the  wines  and  the  waiters  are  alike  imported.  I  knew  what 


DINING  WITH  SCHOPENHAUER          in 

the  waiter  was  thinking  about — I  felt  and  understood  his 
subtly  insinuated  reproach:  I  was  alone.  There  was  no 
person  of  the  opposite  sex  with  me  to  double  or  treble  the  bill 
and  to  obey  whose  slightest  hinted  wish  the  garcon  would  fly 
with  winged  feet,  a  la  Mercure.  Decidedly  it  is  a  violence 
to  the  Parisian  waiter  to  dine  alone  at  Mouquin's,  for  it  robs 
him  of  that  pleasing  incentive  which  is  essential  to  the  per 
fect  exhibition  of  his  art.  I  do  not  qualify  the  phrase — the 
French  waiter  at  Mouquin's  is  an  artist,  and  never  more  so 
than,  when  he  rebukes  me,  wordlessly  and  without  offence, 
for  dining  alone. 

However,  I  was  a  good  deal  worse  than  being  alone  or  in 
company,  for  have  I  not  said  that  Schopenhauer  was  with 
me?  Do  you  know  Schopenhauer?  Is  he  anything  more 
than  a  name  to  you, — that  giant  sacker  of  dreams,  that  deadly 
dissector  of  illusions,  that  pitiless  puncturer  of  the  poetry  of 
the  sexes,  that  daring  exposer  of  Nature's  most  tenderly 
cherished  and  vigilantly  guarded  secrets,  whose  thought  still 
lies  like  a  blight  upon  the  world?  Do  you  know  his  beautiful 
theory  of  love  which  is  as  simple  as  the  process  of  digestion 
and  indeed  very  similar  to  it.  Once  in  Berlin  an  enthusiast 
spoke  in  Schopenhauer's  presence  of  the  "immortal  passion." 
The  Master  turned  upon  him  with  his  frightful  sneer  and 
asked  him  if  his  bowels  were  immortal ! 

When  Actaeon  surprised  the  chaste  Diana  at  her  bath,  he 
was"  merely  torn  to  pieces  by  his  own  hounds.  Schopenhauer's 
punishment  for  betraying  the  deepest  arcana  of  nature  was 
worse,  yet  not  worse  than  the  crime  merited — he  was  com 
pelled  to  eat  his  own  heart!  .  .  .  Not,  I  grant  you,  a 
cheerful  table-mate  for  a  dinner  at  Mouquin's,  when  the 
lights  glow  charmingly  and  the  bustling  waiters,  the  incoming 
guests,  the  rustling  of  skirts,  the  low  laughter  indicative  of 
expectancy,  and  the  confused  yet  agreeable  murmur  of  voices 
— the  bass  or  baritone  of  the  men  mingled  with  the  lighter 
tones  of  the  women — announce  a  joyous  evening.  Charming 


1 1 2  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

fugue,  in  which  a  delicate  ear  may  detect  every  note  of  appe 
tite  and  passion,  though  the  players  use  the  surd  with  the 
most  artistic  precaution.  (Mouquin's  is  the  most  discreet 
and  admirably  regulated  of  cafes).  Polite  overture  to  the 
orgasm  of  the  Belly-God  and  perhaps  to  the  satisfaction  of 
certain  allied  divinities  whom  I  may  not  specialize.  Admir 
able  convention,  by  which  men  and  women  come  in  sacri 
ficial  garments,  or  evening  attire,  to  worship  at  the  shrine  of 
the  Flesh. 

But  why  drag  in  Schopenhauer  ? — do  not  some  guests  come 
unbidden  to  every  banquet,  and  is  it  within  our  power  to 
decline  their  company?  Let  us  be  thankful  if  at  least  we  do 
not  have  to1  take  them  to  bed  with  us. 

The  climacteric,  perhaps?  My  dear  sir,  when  I  tip  the 
waiter  to-night,  I  can  get  him  to  say  easily  that  I  am  not  a 
day  over  thirty. 

Throughout  the  large  room  (we  are  upstairs,  gentle 
reader)  the  tables  are  filling  rapidly  with  well-dressed  men 
and  women.  Nothing  in  their  appearance,  generally,  to 
challenge  remark ;  a  conventional  crowd  of  male  and  female 
New  Yorkers,  intent  on  a  good  dinner  and  subsidiary  enjoy 
ments.  For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  I  notice  how  pleasant 
it  is  to  observe  everything  at  leisure,  without  having  to  talk 
to  any  one — you  really  can  not  see  things  in  a  detached, 
philosophic  manner  when  you  have  to  jabber  to  a  pretty 
woman. 

A  clerical-looking  gentleman  with  a  severe  forehead,  is 
one  of  my  near  neighbors.  His  companion  is  a  handsome 
young  woman,  rather  highly  colored,  who  seems  more  at 
home  than  the  forehead.  A  couple  take  the  table  next  to 
mine;  the  young  fellow  is  well-looking  enough,  the  girl  has 
the  short,  colorless,  indeterminate,  American  face,  with  its 
pert  resolve  to  be  pretty ;  both  are  young  and  have  eyes  only 
for  each  other — that's  the  point.  They  sit  down  to  the 


DINING  WITH  SCHOPENHAUER          113 

table  as  if  preparing  for  the  event  of  their  lives ;  this  eager 
young  expectancy  is  smilingly  noted  by  others  than  myself. 

A  large  man  convoying  three  heavy  matronly  women  who 
yet  do  not  look  like  mothers — you  know  that  familiar  New 
York  type — takes  a  favorable  station  against  the  wall  where 
there  is  much  room  for  eating  and  whence  the  outlook  is  com 
manding.  The  large  one  perjures  himself  fearfully  in  ex 
plaining  how  he  had  it  specially  reserved.  I  know  him  for  a 
genial  liar,  and  maybe  the  ladies  do,  too.  These  four  have 
evidently  come  to  eat  and  drink  their  fill,  and  to  look  on: 
Schopenhauer  is  no  concern  of  theirs,  nor  they  of  his. 

Not  so  this  elderly  man  with  the  dashing  young  woman  on 
his  arm — the  man  is  too  handsome  to  be  called  old,  in  spite 
of  his  white  hair.  The  young  woman  has  that  look  of  com 
plete  self-possession  and  easy  tolerance  which  such  young 
women  commonly  manifest  toward  their  elderly  admirers — 
this  is  not  romance,  but  what  is  generically  termed  the  "sure 
thing."  Schopenhauer  is  but  faintly  interested,  and  my  eyes 
wander  toward  the  little  American  type.  She  has  had  her 
second  glass  of  wine  by  this  time  and  it  has  hoisted  a  tiny 
flag  in  her  cheek.  A  little  more  and  she  will  succeed  in  her 
determination  to  be  pretty — the  dinner  is  only  half  under 
way.  Schopenhauer  bids  me  note  that  she  eats  now  with 
undisguised  appetite,  and  that  she  fixes  a  steadier  gaze  upon 
her  young  man  than  he  can  always  meet.  Both  young  heads 
are  together  and  they  eat  as  fast  as  they  talk — but  youth 
atones  for  all.  These  two  continue  to  draw  the  gaze  of 
most  persons  in  their  vicinity. 

There  have  been  one  or  two  mild  selections  by  the  orches 
tra,  but  they  passed  unnoticed  in  the  first  stern  business  of 
eating.  It  is  a  pity  that  artists  should  be  subjected  to  such 
an  indignity,  but  it  can  not  well  be  avoided  by  artists  who 
play  for  hungry  people.  The  leader  of  Mouquin's  orches 
tra — perhaps  I  should  say  the  orchestra  at  Mouquin's — is  a 
young  man  with  a  high  forehead  and  long  hair.  I  am  not  a 


1 14  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

critic  of  music,  like  my  friend  James  Huneker,  and  I  am 
unhappy  in  the  difficult  vocabulary  which  that  gifted  writer 
employs.  But  it  seems  to  me  the  conductor  and  first  violin 
ist  at  Mouquin's  is  an  artist.  A  veritable  artist !  No  doubt 
I  shall  be  laughed  at  for  this — I  have  said  that  I  am  ignorant 
of  the  technique  of  criticism. 

When  the  orgasm  of  eating  had  in  a  degree  subsided, 
Schopenhauer  nudged  me  to  observe  how  the  company  began 
to  give  some  attention  to  the  music  and  even  to  applaud  a  lit 
tle.  Ah,  it  was  then  the  young  leader  seemed  grand  and 
inspired,  to  me.  He  looked  as  if  he  did  not  eat  much  him 
self;  and  his  music — something  from  Tannhauser — fell  on 
my  ears  like  a  high  rebuke  to  these  guzzling  men  and  women. 
I  do  not  know  for  sure  what  the  "motif  of  it  was  (this 
word  is  from  Mr.  Huneker),  but  the  refrain  sounded  to  me 
like,  uDo  not  be  swine!  Do  not  be  swine!" 

The  swine  were  in  no  way  abashed — perhaps  they  did  not 
understand  the  personal  allusion.  I  have  read  somewhere  in 
Mr.  Huneker  that  the  Wagnerian  "motif"  is  often  very  dif 
ficult  to  follow. 

We  had  reached  the  coffee,  that  psychic  moment  when  the 
world  is  belted  with  happiness;  when  all  our  desires  seem 
attainable ;  when  with  facile  assurance  we  discount  the  most 
precious  favors  of  love  or  fortune. 

"You  will  now  observe,"  whispered  my  invisible  guest, 
"that  with  these  animals  the  present  is  the  acute  or  critical 
moment  of  digestion,  from  which  result  many  unclaimed 
children  and  much  folly  in  the  world.  The  edge  of  appetite 
has  been  dulled,  but  there  is  still  a  desire  to  eat,  and  the  stage 
of  repletion  is  yet  to  be  reached.  These  animals  now  think 
themselves  in  a  happy  condition  for  the  aesthetic  enjoyment 
of  art  and  even  for  the  raptures  of  love.  They  have  been 
fed." 

The  terrible  irony  of  the  tone,  more  than  the  words, 
caused  me  to  turn  apprehensively;  but  no  one  was  listening, 


DINING  WITH  SCHOPENHAUER          115 

and  my  hat  and  coat  occupied  the  chair  where  should  have 
sat  my  vis-a-vis. 

With  the  coming  of  the  cordials  and  the  lighting  of  cigar 
ettes,  the  music  changed  to  gayer  measures.  The  young 
maestro's  head  was  thrown  back  and  in  his  eye  flamed  the 
fire  of  what  I  must  call  inspiration,  in  default  of  the  proper 
phrase  or  hunekerism ;  while  his  bow  executed  the  most  vivid 
lightning  of  melody.  This  was  the  moment  of  his  nightly 
triumph,  when  his  artist  soul  was  in  some  degree  compen 
sated  for  the  base  milieu  in  which  his  genius  had  been  set  by 
an  evil  destiny.  He  now  saw  before  him  an  alert,  apprecia 
tive  audience,  instead  of  an  assembly  of  feeding  men  and 
women.  For  the  moment  he  would  not  have  changed  places 
with  a  conductor  of  grand  opera. 

"Note  that  foolish  fellow's  delusion,"  said  Schopenhauer. 
"I  have  exposed  it  a  hundred  times.  He  thinks  he  is  playing 
to  the  souls,  the  emotions  of  all  these  people,  and  he  plumes 
himself  upon  his  paltry  art.  They  also  are  a  party  to  his 
cheat.  He  is  really  playing  to  their  stomachs,  and  their 
applause,  their  appreciation,  is  purely  sensual.  Yet  I  will 
not  deny  that  he  is  doing  them  a  service  in  assisting  the  pro 
cess  of  digestion;  but  it  is  purely  physiological,  sheerly  ani 
mal.  The  question  of  art  does  not  enter  at  all,  any  more  than 
the  question  of  love  does  in  the  mind  of  yonder  old  gentle 
man  who  has  ate  and  drunk  too  well  and  is  now  doting  with 
senile  desire  upon  that  young  woman." 

I  noticed  indeed  that  the  elderly  gentleman  had  become 
gay  and  amorously  confidential,  while  his  companion  smiled 
often  with  affected  carelessness,  yet  seemed  to  be  curiously 
observant  of  his  every  word  and  gesture.  But  their  affair 
was  no  matter  for  speculation. 

I  glanced  toward  the  clerical  gentleman  with  the  severe 
forehead.  Both  he  and  the  forehead  had  relaxed  perceptibly 
and  there  was  evident  that  singular  change  which  takes  place 
when  a  man  doffs  the  conventional  mask  of  self.  His  lady 


1 1 6  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

friend  seemed  disposed  to  lead  him  further.     No  romance 

here "It  is  the  stuff  of  all  romances,"  snarled 

Schopenhauer. 

The  heavy  women  waddled  out  once  or  twice  to  the  retir 
ing  room  and  came  back  to  drink  anew.  No  man  looked  at 
them,  save  in  idle  curiosity — they  were  beyond  tempt 
ing  or  temptation.  "These  represent  the  consummate 
flowers  of  ithe  sexual  or  passional  instinct,"  remarked 
the  sage.  "Gross  as  they  now  seem,  they  were  once 
young  and  what  is  called  desirable.  They  yielded  fully 
to  their  animal  requirements — they  ate,  drank  and  loved,  or 
to  speak  more  correctly,  digested — with  such  results  as  we 


now  see." 


I  shuddered  .  .  .  but  the  large  women  were  in 
dubitably  enjoying  themselves. 

There  was  more  music — the  guests  applauded  ever  the 
more  generously.  The  leader  now  condescended  like  a  verit 
able  artist — a  bas  le  cafe! 

I  noticed  that  my  little  American  beauty  left  the  room 
(without  her  wraps)  a  bit  unsteadily,  and  came  back  pres 
ently,  very  high  in  color.  A  drink  was  waiting  for  her,  and 
she  began  talking  with  her  young  man  as  if  she  and  he  were 
alone  in  the  world.  I  noticed  also  that  the  young  man  carried 
his  liquor  rather  better  and  seemed  to  shrink  a  little  under  the 
eyes  attracted  by  the  girl's  condition.  In  my  ear  I  heard  the 
sardonic  whisper  of  Schopenhauer: 

"They  call  this  love!"     .     .     . 

I  would  rather  dine  with  a  pretty  woman  at  Mouquin's  or 
elsewhere,  than  with  any  philosopher,  living  or  dead.  Espe 
cially  Schopenhauer:  a  bas  the  climacteric! 


In  praise  of  Life. 


HAVE   to  thank  the  many  loyal   friends  who 

^ave  me  t^le^r  symPatny  and  support  during  an 
iUness  that  cut  nearly  three  months  out  of  my 
working  calendar  and  suspended  two  issues  of 
THE  PAPYRUS.     To  have  learned  that  there 
is  such  a  stock  of  pure  kindness  in  the  world,  is  worth  even 
the  price  I  paid  for  it. 

The  desire  of  life  prolongs  it,  say  the  doctors.  'Tis  true, 
and  when  the  wish  for  life  gets  its  force  from  the  strong 
motive  of  doing  one's  chosen  work  in  the  only  world  we 
surely  know,  then  is  Death  driven  back  and  to  Life  goes  the 
victory. 

Oh !  Life,  Life,  how  much  better  art  thou  than  the  shad 
owy  hope  of  an  existence  beyond  the  grave !  I  can  hold  thee, 
taste  thee,  drink  thee,  wrap  myself  in  thee — thou  art  a  most 
dear  reality  and  not  a  shadow.  I  kneel  before  thee  and  pro 
claim  myself  more  than  ever  thy  true  lover,  believer  and 
worshiper.  Let  me  still  be  a  joyous  living  pagan  and  I 
will  not  change  with  all  the  saints  that  have  spurned  thee 
and  gone  their  pale  way  to  Nothingness.  I  breathe  thy 
warm,  perfumed  air  as  one  newly  escaped  from  the  ante 
chamber  of  Death.  It  is  the  last  week  of  May — sweet  May, 
I  had  thought  never  to  see  thee  again ! — and  the  whole 
world  is  fragrant  with  lilac.  It  is  an  efflorescence  of  life 
and  hope  and  joy,  Nature's  largess  after  the  dearth  and 
desolation  of  winter.  My  soul  is  inundated  with  the  golden 
waves  of  light  and  warmth  and  melody.  Something  of  the 
sweetness  and  vague  longing  of  adolescence  revives  in  my 
breast.  My  heart  trembles  with  a  sudden  memory  of  old 
loves,  a  memory  called  up  by  the  sunshine  and  lilac  scents 


1 1 8  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

and  bird  music  with  which  the  glad  world  is  running  over. 
Youth  smiles  a  sly  challenge  at  me  and  love  holds  forth  his 
ineffable  promise.  I  am  drunk  with  the  rapture  of  May — 
for  I  live  I  live  I  live  I 


Henley  the  brave,  who  not  long  ago  captained  his  soul  out 
into  the  Infinite,  was  moved  by  his  experiences  in  hospital  to 
write  some  of  his  most  striking  poems.  No  doubt  there  is 
matter  enough  for  a  poignant  sort  of  poetry  in  the  House  of 
Sickness.  But  literary  inspiration  fails  a  man  when  both  his 
mind  and  body  are  disintegrating.  I  have  brought  nothing 
from  my  white  nights  in  the  hospital,  but  I  left  there  a  good 
deal  of  myself  corporeally  and  something — as  I  am  ad 
monished  by  a  present  difficulty  in  writing — of  my  admirable 
literary  style.  I  think  with  pain  and  shame  of  the  utter 
weakness  to  which  I  was  then  reduced,  and  I  wince  at  the 
recollection  of  some  concessions  wrung  from  dismantled  na 
ture.  I  do  not  care  to  reflect  upon  the  long  blank  hours,  or 
days,  or  weeks,  during  which  I  kept  my  bed  in  passive  en 
durance,  or  upon  one  terrible  night  when  I  waited  for  what 
seemed  to  be  the  End  with  such  courage  as  I  could  command. 
According  to  the  Christian  precept,  I  should  have  seen  in  all 
this  the  hand  of  chastening  and  meekly  accepted  the  portion 
dealt  out  to  me.  But  had  I  yielded  to  this  comfortable  sort 
of  spiritual  cowardice,  I  should  probably  not  be  alive  to  tell 
the  story.  Many  good  Christians  are  thus  soothed  out  of 
this  weary  life  into  a  better  world,  for  a  mental  attitude  of 
pious  resignation  is  the  hardest  condition  with  which  the  doc 
tor  has  to  contend  and  an  unrivaled  f attener  of  graveyards. 

In  the  next  room  to  mine  was  a  fine  young  man  who  had 
undergone  an  operation  for  appendicitis.  The  nurses  told 
me  there  was  no  hope  for  him,  as  he  had  been  brought  in  too 
late — the  nurses  never  contradict  the  doctors.  Poor  fellow, 
I  could  hear  his  every  sigh  and  groan  in  the  vain  but  heroic 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE  119 

struggle  he  was  making  for  life.  Presently  a  stout  clean 
shaven  man  in  clerical  garb  passed  my  door.  It  was  the 
minister.  He  remained  about  ten  minutes  with  the  young 
man,  who  was  a  member  of  his  church.  When  he  left  I 
watched  from  my  window  and  saw  him  mount  his  bicycle  and 
ride  away.  He  did  not  return.  The  young  man  died  next 
day.  I  made  up  my  mind  more  decidedly  that  I  would  get 

better. 

***** 

As  a  boy  I  used  to  read  in  my  prayer  book  the  supplication 
against  the  uevil  of  sudden  death."  In  this  is  contained  the 
very  essence  of  the  Christian  idea,  since  death  being  synony 
mous  with  judgment,  must  needs  appear  terrible  to  the  soul 
unprepared.  Indeed  a  sudden  death  in  the  case  of  an  ir 
religious  person  is  always  hailed  as  a  judgment  by  people  of 
strict  piety.  On  the  other  hand,  the  favor  of  heaven  is 
shown  by  the  grace  of  a  long  sickness  with  its  leisure  for  re 
pentance  and  spiritual  amendment.  No  picture  is  so  edify 
ing  in  a  religious  sense  as  that  of  the  repentant  sinner,  over 
whom  we  are  told  there  is  more  rejoicing  in  heaven  than  is 
called  forth  by  the  triumph  of  the  just.  Especially  if  the 
sinner  have  repented  barely  in  time  to  be  saved — that  is  the 
crucial  point.  If  he  should  make  his  peace  too  soon,  or  if 
his  repentance  should  come  tardy  off,  it  is  not  difficult  to 
fancy  the  angels  cheated  of  their  due  excitement.  Such  a 
blunderer  would,  I  imagine,  get  more  celestial  kicks  than 
compliments.  God  help  us ! — I  fear  me  these  deathbed  re 
pentances  are  the  sorriest  farce  acted  in  the  sight  of  heaven. 

Yet  farcical  as  they  are,  religion  owes  to  them  a  great 
part  of  its  dominion  over  the  conscience  of  men.  The  Catho 
lic  faith,  in  particular,  has  invested  the  final  repentance  and 
absolution  with  a  potency  of  appeal  which  few  indeed  are 
able  to  withstand.  That  is  the  meaning  of  the  phrase,  "Once 
a  Catholic,  always  a  Catholic."  And  there  is  doubtless  a 
grandeur  subduing  the  imagination  in  the  proud  position  of 


120  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

the  Church,  that  no  soul  need  be  lost  which  has  ever  known 
her  sacraments.  Whatever  the  cold  reason  may  make  of  this 
assumption,  we  may  not  forget  how  much  it  has  contributed 
to  the  peace  and  consolation  of  humanity. 

As  for  myself,  having  had  two  long  and  desperate  sick 
nesses  in  the  course  of  a  half-dozen  years, — having  been  so 
near  the  Veil  which  hides  the  Unknown  that  I  could  have 
touched  it, — my  prayer  now  and  forever  shall  be :  Lord, 
deny  us  not  the  blessing  of  sudden  death.  Even  as  quickly 

as  Thou  pleasest,  call  us  hence,  oh  Lord ! 

***** 

To  be  at  home  once  more  in  mine  own  place,  to  sit  under 
the  cheerful  lamp  with  pipe  and  book,  to  taste  the  small 
honors  of  domestic  sovereignty,  to  look  forward  with  a  quiet 
hope  to  the  morrow's  task,  to  watch  the  happy  faces  of  the 
children  in  whom  my  youth  renews  itself,  and  to  share  the 
peace  of  her  who  has  so  long  partnered  my  poor  account  of 
joy  and  sorrow — all  this  is  a  blessedness  which  I  feel  none 
the  less  that  I  do  not  weary  a  benign  Providence  with  ful 
some  praise. 

Many  pious  works  have  been  written  on  the  incomparable 
advantage  of  being  dead, — that  is,  on  the  superior  felicity 
of  the  life  to  come.  The  most  eloquent  and  convincing  of 
these  macabre  essays  were  composed  by  a  set  of  men  who  had 
resigned  nearly  all  that  makes  life  dear  to  humanity.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  they  knew  not  love,  the  most  powerful 
tie  that  attaches  us  to  life.  On  this  account  their  valuable 
works  no  longer  enjoy  the  great  popularity  which  they  had 
in  a  simpler  time.  Indeed,  the  decline  of  this  religious  Cult 
of  Death  is  one  of  the  marks  of  an  advancing  civilization. 
No  doubt  it  served  a  humane  purpose  in  those  dark  ages 
which  we  call  the  Ages  of  Faith,  when  life  was  far  more 
cruel  than  it  now  is  for  the  mass  of  mankind.  Amid  constant 
wars,  bloodshed,  oppression,  famine  and  their  attendant 
evils,  from  which  only  a  privileged  few  were  exempt,  what 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE  121 

wonder  that  men  turned  eagerly  to  a  gospel  which  to  us 
seems  charged  with  despair?  So  the  ages  of  history  during 
which  hell  was  most  completely  and  perfectly  realized  on 
this  earth,  were  also  those  in  which  faith  in  heaven  and  the 
Church  was  universal.  But  with  the  slow  growth  of  liberty 
and  the  partial  emancipation  of  the  human  conscience  during 
the  past  three  centuries,  there  has  gradually  been  formed  a 
truer  and  better  appreciation  of  life.  The  Cult  of  Death 
has  lost  its  hold  upon  the  masses,  with  the  dissolution  of  the 
old  terrible  dogma  of  eternal  punishment.  Men  are  more  in 
love  with  life  at  this  day  than  ever  in  the  past — with  life, 
and  love,  and  happiness,  and  freedom,  all  of  which  were 
more  or  less  limited  and  tabooed  in  the  blessed  Ages  of  Faith. 
As  Heine  said,  "Men  will  no  longer  be  put  off  with  promis 
sory  notes  upon  Heaven — they  demand  their  share  of  this 
earth,  God's  beautiful  garden."  .  .  . 
Let  us  have  life  and  ever  more  life ! 


ALZAC  somewhere  shrewdly  observes  the  per 
sistence  of  the  vital  spark  in  the  sick  in  the 
crowded  quarters  of  a  great  city  where  the 
strong  current  of  human  life  rises  to  the  full. 
It  is  a  good  thought  and  a  cheering  one.  Life 
begets  life  and  the  desire  of  living :  human  companionship  is 
almost  the  condition  of  existence.  The  hermits  who  have 
lived  long  in  their  solitude  are  memorable  instances — be 
cause  there  have  been  so  few  hermits.  Secular  age  and  health 
pass  without  comment  in  the  immense  human  hives  where 
they  are  too  familiar  to  excite  remark.  The  common  notion 
that  people  live  longer  in  the  country  than  in  the  city,  is 
wrong,  like  so  many  other  received  ideas :  the  truth  is,  they 
die  earlier  and  faster  in  the  country,  and  the  earlier  and  the 
faster  in  direct  ratio  to  the  lack  of  companionship.  Solitude 


122  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

is  the  best  known  aid  to  the  madhouse  and  the  cemetery — 
even  the  solitude  of  open  fields  and  healthful  skies.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  in  the  densely  populated  ghettos  of 
Vienna,  of  London  and  of  New  York,  surrounded  by  condi 
tions  that  would  seem  to  make  health  impossible,  persons  so 
old  that  time  appears  to  have  passed  them  by. 

Do  you  want  to  live  and  live  long? — then  be  where  men 
and  women  are  living,  loving  and  propagating  life.  Borrow 
from  the  universal  vital  force.  Draw  on  the  common  fund 
of  health  and  energy.  Drink  from  the  full-flowing  stream  of 
life.  Deep  calls  unto  deep  and  heart  unto  heart.  With  a 
million  hearts  around  you,  with  a  million  pulses  challenging 
and  inciting  your  own,  how  can  you  fail  to  keep  time  to  the 
great  rhythmic  harmony  ?  Fom  all  these  you  derive  strength 
and  hope  and  encouragement;  every  throb  of  every  one  of 
them  all  is  a  summons  to  live — to  live — to  live ! 

Now  of  this  hear  a  proof.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  in  an  evil 
dream,  that  I  had  long  been  sad  and  dejected,  brooding  over 
uncertain  health  and  poisoning  my  blood  with  the  black  vip 
er-doubts  that  strike  into  the  very  heart  of  life;  believing  my 
heritage  of  length  of  days  to  be  forfeited;  shunning  the 
cheerful  society  of  my  fellows;  keeping  alone  with  a  swarm 
of  morbid  fears  and  fancies;  looking  on  life  with  the  lost 
gaze  of  one  who  divines  everywhere  an  unseen  but  exultant 
and  implacable  enemy. 

Then,  at  last,  I  yielded  to  the  bidding  of  a  kinder  spirit.  I 
threw  off  the  nightmare  and  mingled  again  with  my  kind.  I 
went  where  men  and  women  were  merry  with  feast  and 
dance,  with  wine  and  music  and  song.  I  looked  for  the  joy 
of  the  human  face  and  did  not  look  in  vain.  I  recovered  in  a 
moment  my  old  birthright  of  hope  and  happiness.  My  heart, 
so  long  drooping,  rose  at  the  compelling  summons  of  life 
about  me :  the  old  desire  to  live  and  love  sprung  up  anew  in 
me  to  hail  the  red  flag  in  a  woman's  cheek  and  the  bright 
challenge  of  her  eyes.  I  filled  my  glass  and  at  the  bidding 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE  123 

of  b.eauty  and  joy  devoted  my  ancient  sick  fears  to  perdition. 
I  was  merry  with  the  rest,  aye,  merry  with  the  maddest;— 
and  since  that  hour  I  live  ...  I  live  ...  I 
live ! 


AM  asked  if,  in  my  opinion,  suicide  is  ever  justi 
fiable. 

The  question  is  one  for  the  individual  con 
science.     Men  and  women  are  answering  it  with 
a  dreadful  yea,  yea,  every  day,   casting  away 
life  as  they  might  reject  a  worn-out  garment. 

By  social  consent,  founded  on  religious  feeling,  suicide  is 
a  crime  against  God.  It  is  also  held  to  be  a  crime  against  so 
ciety.  Persons  attempting  suicide  and  failing  in  the  act  are 
subject  to  the  rigor  of  the  law.  No  legal  punishment  is  (of 
course)  provided  for  those  who  succeed,  but  they  do  not 
escape  in  the  next  world — the  churches  take  care  of  that: 
all  theologians  agree  that  the  suicide  is  eternally  reprobate 
and  damned. 

I  dissent  utterly  from  this  inhuman  teaching,  while  I  can 
conceive  of  no  circumstances  that  would  make  suicide  justi 
fiable  for  myself.  For  so  dissenting  I  shall  be  told  that  I 
render  myself  liable  to  damnation.  Is  it  not  strange  that  a 
man  should  be  damned  for  holding  too  favorable  an  opinion 
of  God? 

But  it  may  not  be  so  bad  as  that — we  have  only  some 
men's  word  for  it. 

We  are  told  that  hardly  a  soul  comes  into  the  world  but 
at  some  time  or  other  thinks  of  voluntarily  quitting  it,  and  is 
only  restrained  by  the  fear  of  eternal  punishment. 

I  would  change  this — I  would  make  life  here,  present, 
hopeful  and  abundant,  the  restraining  influence.  I  would  pit 
Life  against  Death  and  turn  my  back  on  the  kingdom  of 
shadows. 


i24  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

I  do  not  defend  suicide,  but  I  plead  for  the  many  upon 
whom  fate  imposes  this  bitter  destiny. 

For  myself  I  believe  that  life  at  the  very  worst  is  too  pre 
cious  a  gift  to  throw  away.  Steep  me  in  shame  and  sorrow 
to  the  very  lips,  exile  me  from  the  charity  of  my  kind,  pile 
on  my  bare  head  all  the  abuses  and  humiliations  which  hu 
man  nature  is  capable  of  inflicting  or  enduring — my  cry  shall 
still  and  ever  be  for  life,  more  life ! 

Though  the  wife  of  my  youth  should  betray  me  again  and 
again,  though  my  children  prove  false  and  dishonor  my  gray 
••?  hairs,  though  my  oldest,  truest  friends  abandon  me  and  I  be 
come  a  "fixed  figure  for  the  hand  of  scorn  to  point  his  slow 
unmoving  finger  at," — still  shall  I  cling  to  this  boon  of  life — 
life—life ! 

For  now  I  tell  you,  heart-burdened,  weary  and  despairing 
ones,  if  only  you  will  be  patient  a  little  longer  and  wait,  life 
itself  shall  heal  your  every  sorrow. 

I  give  you  this  Gospel  of  Hope,  this  water  of  refreshing 
in  the  arid  desert  of  your  despair- 
Life  is  the  Healer,  Life  the  Consoler,  Life  the  Reconciler. 

In  earlier  years  I  used  to  hear  the  most  eloquent  sermons 
on  the  blessedness  of  death,  which  always  left  me  cold  and 
unpersuaded.  To  such  gloomy  homilies  is  perhaps  due  the 
aversion  I  now  feel  toward  most  preaching.  No!  talk  not 
to  me  of  death,  that  ironic  Phantom,  that  grisly  Sophist  by 
whose  aid  religion  maintains  the  unworthiest  part  of  her  con 
quest.  I  hate  and  abominate  from  my  deepest  soul  this  plau- 
sive,  solemn,  unctuous,  lying  cant  of  darkness  and  the  grave. 
He  that  preaches  fears  it  as  much  as  he  that  hears  and  will 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  escape  the  inevitable  doom.  Away 
with  such  mummery ! 

Death  in  the  ripe  course  of  nature  is  beautiful  and  seemly, 
but  death  by  disease,  or  violence,  or  accident,  is  horrible,  for 
no  man  should  be  cheated  or  cheat  himself  of  his  due  share  of 
life.  And  this  which  is  now  an  empty  axiom  shall  one  day  be 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE  125 

the  highest  law  of  a  better  state  of  society  than  we  yet  dream 
of,  wherein  disease  shall  be  unknown  and  death  by  violence, 
public,  private,  or  judicial,  a  thing  without  precedent. 

My  cry  is  for  life — more  life ! 

Look,  ye  impatient  ones ! — I,  too,  have  been  down,  down, 
down  in  those  abysmal  depths  where  hope  is  a  mockery  and 
the  mercy  of  God  despaired  of;  I  have  tasted  the  bitterness 
of  betrayal  by  those  most  sacredly  pledged  to  keep  faith  with 
me ;  I  have  known  the  uttermost  treason  of  the  heart ;  I  have 
been  made  to  feel  that  there  was  not  one  soul  in  all  the  living 
world  joined  to  me  by  any  true  or  lasting  bond;  I  have  seen 
the  destruction  of  my  own  house  of  life,  that  temple  of  the 
soul,  losing  which  a  man  is  homeless  on  the  earth. 

And  yet  I  rose  out  of  this  lowest  hell  of  desolation,  borne 
as  I  must  believe  by  some  late-succoring,  strong-winged  Angel 
of  Hope — and  blessed  God  to  see  again  the  cheerful  face  of 
life! 

Little  children,  little  children,  the  end  of  all  will  come  only 
too  soon:  why  hasten  it?  The  Master  of  Life  has  bidden 
you  wait  His  summons.  By  my  soul !  I  do  not  believe  that 
He  would  harshly  reprove  you  or  turn  away  His  face  should 
you,  under  the  goad  of  sorrows  too*  great  for  endurance, 
come  suddenly,  unbidden,  before  Him.  Yet  were  it  better  to 

stand  firm  like  good  soldiers  and  abide  your  call. 

******* 

It  is  most  strange  that  while  men  have  killed  other  men, 
believing  themselves  to  be  inspired  of  God,  no  man  has  ever 
been  credited  with  the  same  belief  in  killing  himself.  The 
courts  of  heaven,  it  would  seem,  are  thronged  with  murder 
ers  who  have  been  washed  clean  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb; 
but  you  shall  see  no  suicide  there. 

Is  not  this  a  monstrous  conception — one  that  dishonors 
God? 

Why  should  the  sinless  suicide  be  damned  to  a  rayless 
Hell  while  some  bloody  Alva  or  cruel  Calvin  is  crowned 


126  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

with  the  salvation  of  the  just?  Why  should  there  be  hope  for 
the  slayer  of  age,  the  ravager  of  innocence,  the  despoiler  of 
the  widow  and  the  orphan,  and  none  at  all  for  him  who 
strikes  only  at  his  own  life?  Does  God  indeed  choose  His 
saints  with  so  little  care,  or  have  we  not  here  one  of  those  per 
versions  that  harden  the  hearts  of  men  and  "sweet  religion 
make  a  rhapsody  of  words"?  Let  us  deny  this  monstrous 
teaching  of  narrow-hearted  men  who  presume  to  speak  for 
God — let  us  say  to  all  such  in  the  words  of  Hamlet  over  the 
self-drowned  Ophelia : 

"I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  ministering  angel  shall  my  sister  be 
When  thou  liest  howling!" 

Again  I  say,  you  are  not  to  take  your  life  on  any  terms: 
in  other  words,  you  are  not  to  accept  defeat.  It  is  not  that  I 
would  brand  as  coward  the  man  who  boldly  pushes  his  way 
into  the  Unknown — the  courage  of  that  act  is  so  appalling 
that  men  have  named  it  madness.  But  it  is  a  higher  courage 
to  resist  the  fates. 

Yet — whisper ! — I  do  not  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  often 
God  in  His  mercy  shows  this  only  way,  this  via  dolorosa,  to 
some  poor  lost  soul,  some  victim  of  man's  inhumanity,  un 
able  to  struggle  longer  in  the  coils  of  fate. 

To  me  the  most  awfully  pathetic  figure  in  a  world  sown 
with  tragedy  is  the  man  or  woman,  broken  on  the  cruel  rack 
of  life,  who  makes  a  desperate  choice  to  find  his  or  her  way 
alone  to  God.  Though  you  plant  no  cross  and  raise  no  stone 
upon  that  grave,  though  you  hide  it  away  from  the  sight  of 
men,  I  for  one  shall  not  deem  it  a  grave  of  shame.  I  shall 
kneel  there  in  spite  of  priestly  anathemas;  I  shall  pray  for 
this  poor  child  of  earth  sainted  by  suffering;  my  tears  shall 
fall  on  the  despised  grave  where  rests, — oh,  rests  well  at  last, 
— one  of  the  uncounted  martyrs  of  humanity.  Yes!  I  see  in 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE  127 

that  nameless  grave  huddled  away  in  the  potter's  field  a  sym 
bol  of  the  tragedy  of  this  life  whereunto  we  are  called  with 
out  our  will  and  whence  we  must  not  depart  save  in  the  pro 
cess  of  nature.  And  I  will  believe  that  God  rejects  the  poor 
defeated  one  lying  there  when  I,  a  mere  human  father,  feel 
my  heart  turned  to  stone  against  the  weakest  and  most  erring 
of  my  children. 


AVE  you  ever  really  thought  upon  the  beauty  of 
this  world  which  is  passing  away  before  your 
eyes?  You  have  read  the  words,  "The  eye  is 
not  satisfied  with  seeing  nor  the  ear  with  hear 
ing,  "  but  have  you  ever  thought  that  they  might 
bear  another  sense  than  the  Holy  Book  gives  them. 

For  my  part,  when  I  come  to  die  I  know  what  my  chief 
regret  will  be.  Not  for  my  poor  human  sins,  which  have 
really  hurt  nobody  save  myself  and  most  of  which  I  will  have 
forgotten.  Not  because  I  have  missed  the  laurel  which  was 
the  darling  dream  of  my  youth.  Not  because  I  have  always 
fallen  short  of  my  ideal  and,  still  worse,  betrayed  my  own 
dearest  hopes.  Not  for  the  selfish  reason  that  I  have  never 
been  able  to  gain  that  position  of  independence  and  security 
which  would  enable  me  to  work  with  a  free  mind.  Not  for 
having  failed  to  score  in  any  one  particular  what  the  world 
calls  a  success.  Not  for  these  nor  any  other  of  the  vain  de 
sires  that  mock  the  human  heart  in  its  last  agony. 

No ;  I  shall  simply  be  sorry  that  I  failed  to  enjoy  so  much 
of  the  beauty  of  this  dear  earth  and  sky,  or  even  to  mark  it 
in  my  hurry  through  the  days,  my  reckless  pleasures,  my  stu 
pid  tasks  that  yielded  me  nothing.  I  shall  think  with  utter 
bitterness  of  the  time  out  of  all  the  time  given  me  I  might 
have  passed  in  profitably  looking  at  the  moon.  Or  in  mark- 


128  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

ing  with  an  eye  faithful  to  every  sign,  the  advance  of  the 
bannered  host  of  Summer  unto  the  scattered  and  whistling 
disarray  of  Autumn.  How  many  of  those  wonderful  cam 
paigns  have  I  really  seen  ? — alas !  I  know  too  well  how  many 
I  have  numbered. 

There  was  a  rapture  of  flowing  water  that  always  I  was 
promising  myself  I  should  one  day  explore  to  the  full;  and 
now  I  am  to  die  without  knowing  it.  There  were  days  and 
weeks  and  months  of  the  universe  in  all  its  glory  bidding  for 
my  admiration ;  yet  I  saw  nothing  of  it  all.  My  baser  senses 
solicited  me  beyond  the  cosmic  marvels.  I  lost  in  hours  of 
sleep,  or  foolish  pleasure,  or  useless  labor,  spectacles  of 
beauty  which  the  world  had  been  storing  up  for  millions  of 
ages — perhaps  had  not  been  able  to  produce  before  my  brief 
day.  I  regret  even  the  first  years  of  life  when  the  universe 
seemed  only  a  pleasant  garden  to  play  in  and  the  firmament 
a  second  roof  for  my  father's  house.  Grown  older  but  no 
wiser,!  planned  to  watch  the  sky  from  dawn  to  sunset  and, 
on  another  occasion,  from  sunset  to  dawn ;  but  my  courage  or 
patience  failed  me  for  even  this  poor  enterprise.  I  was  a 
beggar  at  a  feast  of  incomparable  riches,  and  something 
always  detained  me  from  putting  forth  my  hand;  or  I  left 
the  table  which  the  high  gods  had  spread  and  went  eating 
husks  with  swine.  And  now  I  am  to  die  hungry,  self-robbed 
of  my  share  at  the  banquet  of  immortal  beauty — can  Chris 
tian  penitence  find  anything  to  equal  the  poignancy  of  such  a 
regret?  .  .  . 

Yet  even  as  I  write  I  am  cheating  myself  in  the  old  bank 
rupt  fashion,  for  the  day  outside  my  window  is  like  a  tremu 
lous  golden  fire  and  the  world  overflows  with  a  torrent  of 
green  life — life  that  runs  down  from  the  fervid  heaven  and 
suspires  through  the  pregnant  earth.  It  is  the  first  of  June, 
when  Nature,  like  a  goddess  wild  with  the  pangs  of  delivery, 
moves  the  whole  earth  with  her  travail,  filling  every  bosom 
with  the  sweet  and  cruel  pain  of  desire.  Now  she  takes  ac- 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE  129 

count  of  nothing  that  does  not  fecundate,  conceive  or  pro 
duce,  intent  only  upon  securing  her  own  immortal  life.  And 
though  she  has  done  this  a  million  and  a  million  ages,  yet  is 
she  as  keen  of  zest  as  ever;  as  avid  for  the  full  sum  of  her 
desire  as  when  she  first  felt  the  hunger  of  love  and  life;  as 
unwearied  as  on  the  morning  of  Creation. 

"Put  away  your  foolish  task,"  she  seems  to  say.  "Yet  a 
few  days  and  it  and  you  will  both  be  ended  and  forgotten. 
Come  out  of  doors  and  live  while  the  chance  is  left  you. 
Come  and  learn  the  secret  of  the  vital  sap  that  is  no  less  a 
marvel  in  the  tiniest  plant  than  in  the  race  of  man.  If  you 
can  not  learn  that,  I  will  teach  you  something  else  of  value — 
the  better  that  you  ask  me  naught.  Leave  your  silly  books 
and  come  into  the  great  green  out-of-doors,  swept  clean  by 
the  elemental  airs.  Here  shall  you  find  the  answer  to  your 
foolish  question,  'What  do  we  live  for?' — Life  .  .  . 
life  life!" 


puhns  et  dtnbra. 


O  sadder  message  comes  to  a  writer  in  the  course 
of  a  year  than  the  news  of  some  friendly  though 
unknown  reader's  death.  Often  you  learn  it 
only  through  the  return  of  the  magazine,  with 
the  single  word  "Deceased"  written  across  the 
wrapper.  It  is  a  word  to  give  one  pause,  however  engrossing 
the  present  occupation,  Here  was  a  man  or  woman  who, 
though  personally  unknown  to  you,  was  yet,  it  may  be,  in 
spiritual  touch  with  oyu — perhaps  the  best  friendship  of  all. 
For  him  or  her  you  wrote  your  thoughts — since  all  writing  is 
to  an  unseen  but  familiar  audience ;  for  him  or  her  you  told 
the  story  of  your  own  mind  and  heart,  sure  of  a  kindly  under 
standing  and  sympathy — without  this  assurance,  believe  me, 
there  would  be  little  enough  writing  in  the  world.  Every 
writer's  message  is  conditioned — I  would  almost  say  dictated 
—by  this  invisible  but  closely  judging  auditory.  You  get  to 
know  what  your  readers  expect,  and  this  in  the  main  you  try 
to  give  them,  though  often  failing  the  mark.  So  the  act  of 
writing  is  a  kind  of  tacit  covenant  and  cooperation  between 
the  writer  and  his  public.  Indeed,  it  is  not  I  but  you  who 
hold  the  pen ;  or  rather  it  is  I  who  hold  it  but  you  who  speak 
through  it  and  through  me. 

This  relation  being  understood,  it  is  but  natural  that  a 
writer  should  feel  a  sense  of  grief  and  loss  on  hearing  of  the 
death  of  some  one  who  held  him  to  this  communion  of 
thought  and  spirit.  I  am  not  sure  that  this  grief  would  be 
more  genuine  had  he  personally  known  the  lost  one — our 
finest  friendships,  like  the  old  classic  divinities,  veil  them 
selves  in  a  cloud.  We  wear  ourselves  out  trying  to  maintain 
the  common  friendships  of  the  house  and  street,  and  it  is  like 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA  131 

matching  faces  with  Proteus:  in  the  end  we  become  indiffer 
ent — or  wise. 

But  here  was  one  whom  you  never  saw — who  lived  half 
the  length  of  the  continent  from  you,  or  perhaps  in  the  next 
town — no  matter,  you  two  had  never  met  in  the  body.  Your 
word  did,  however,  come  to  him  and  called  forth  a  genial 
response ;  he  let  you  know  that  so  far  as  you  went  he  set  foot 
with  you.  Thenceforward  you  marched  the  more  boldly, 
getting  grace  and  courage  and  authority  from  this  one's  silent 
friendship  and  approval.  You  figured  him  as  one  who  stood 
afar  off — too  far  for  you  to  see  his  face — and  waved  you  a 
cheery  salute;  your  soul  hailed  a  fellow  pilgrim.  Now  comes 
the  word  that  he  can  go  no  further  with  you — rather,  indeed, 
that  he  has  outstripped  your  laggard  pace  and  gone  forward 
on  the  great  Journey.  You  learn  of  his  departure  in  the 
chance  way  I  have  mentioned — not  being  a  friend  in  the  con 
ventional  sense,  the  family  do  not  think  to  send  you  any 
message  or  mourning  card.  You  have  but  to  feel  that  you 
are  poorer  by  a  friendship  of  the  soul  than  you  were  yester 
day  ;  that  you  are  going  on,  in  a  sense,  alone  and  unsupported, 
for  this  friend  was  a  host;  that  you  are  not  to  look  ever 
again  for  his  written  word  of  praise,  which  brought  such 
gladness  to  your  heart,  or  his  delicate  counsel  that  often 
helped  you  to  a  clearer  vision  of  things.  The  silent  compact 
is  dissolved. 

I  set  these  lines  here  in  loving  and  grateful  memory  of  a 
few  such  friends  of  mine  who  died  to  this  life  during  the  past 
year.  May  they  live  on  to  higher  purpose ! 


Life  is  a  blessing,  and  death  is  no  less. 
That  which  we  call  the  common  lot  is  the  rarest  lot.  Love 
and  loss  and  grief  are  for  all. 

Of  two  men,  one  who  loves  and  one  who  has  loved  and 


132  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

lost,  the  second  is  the  richer:  God  has  given  him  the  better 
part — he  holds  both  of  earth  and  Heaven. 

The  love  that  has  known  no  loss  is  wholly  selfish  and 
human.  Death  alone  sanctifies. 

Who  has  not  lain  down  at  night  saying  unto  himself, 
"Now  is  the  solemn  hour  when  my  own  shall  come  back  to 
me/' — has  not  sounded  the  shoreless  sea  of  love. 

I  believe  in  life  and  I  believe  not  less  profoundly  in  death. 

I  believe  in  a  resurrection  and  a  restoration — we  can  not 
lose  our  own. 

No  man  has  ever  yet  found  tongue  to  tell  the  things  that 
death  has  taught  him.  No  man  dare  reveal  them  fully — 'tis 
a  covenant  with  Silence. 

A  power  that  strikes  us  to  our  knees  with  infinite  sorrow 
and  a  yearning  that  would  reach  beyond  the  grave,  must  be 
a  Power  Benign. 

Life  divides  and  estranges :  Death  reunites  and  reconciles : 
Blessed  be  Death! 


"Your  friend  is  dead!"  they  told  me,  but  I  did  not  believe 
nor  understand. 

Then  they  led  me  to  a  darkened  room,  hushed  and  solemn 
amid  the  roar  of  New  York,  where  I  saw  him  lying  in  a 
strange  yet  beautiful  serenity. 

No  disfigurement  of  his  manly  comeliness;  no  trace  of  a 
struggle  that  had  convulsed  the  watchers  with  pain  only  less 
than  his. 

Roses  on  his  manly  breast — roses  rich  and  lush  as  the 
young  life  that  had  sunk  into  a  sleep  so  sudden,  so  unlocked 
for. 

Nothing  to  shock,  nothing  to  appal  in  this  worldless 
greeting  to  the  friends  of  his  heart.  As  ever  in  life,  his  per 
sonality  took  and  held  us  in  its  strong  toil  of  grace — yes, 
more  than  ever  held  us  now  closely  his  own. 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA  133 

Could  this  indeed  be  death? 

Ah,  many  a  time  had  I  hastened  with  joyous  anticipation 
to  meet  him,  but  never  had  we  kept  a  tryst  like  this. 

I  clasped  that  hand  whose  touch  so  often  had  thrilled  me 
with  its  kindness — oh,  hand  so  strong  and  gentle  of  my  best- 
loved  friend!  It  was  not  cold  as  I  feared  it  would  be,  and 
surely  a  pulse  answered  to  mine — he  knew,  oh,  yes !  he  knew 
that  I  was  there. 

I  kissed  his  calm  forehead  and  felt  no  chill  of  death — no 
terror  at  the  heart.  He  seemed  but  to  lie  in  a  breathless 
sleep  that  yet  held  a  profound  consciousness  of  our  presence. 

Still  they  said  he  was  dead, — he  so  tranquil,  almost  smiling 
and  inscrutably  attentive! — and  the  grief  of  women  chal 
lenged  my  own  tears  to  flow. 

Yet,  with  my  emotions  tense  as  a  bow  drawn  to  the  head, 
I  could  not  weep ;  so  was  I  held  by  this  wonder  and  majesty 
they  called  death.  And  it  seemed  that  he  did  not  ask  my 
tears  in  the  ineffable  peace  of  our  last  meeting — no,  not  my 
tears.  But  there  was  a  gathering  up  of  the  heart  which  I  had 
never  known  before,  a  bringing  together  by  Memory,  the 
faithful  warder,  of  all  that  had  made  or  ministered  to  our 
friendship, — kind  looks  and  tones,  trifles  light  as  air  mingled 
with  graver  matters,  a  country  walk,  a  sea  voyage,  books 
that  we  had  read  together,  snatches  of  talk,  mutual  pleasures, 
mutual  interests,  a  hundred  proofs  of  brotherly  affection  and 
sympathy, — so  Memory  ran  searching  the  years  till  the  sum 
of  my  love  and  my  loss  lay  before  me. 

Did  he  know — did  he  feel  ?  Scarcely  I  dared  to  ask  myself 
when  the  Silence  breathed  Yes !  .  .  . 

Here  at  my  elbow  is  the  telephone  into  which  I  could 
summon  his  pleasant  voice  at  will.  It  was  but  now  we  were 
talking  and  making  happy  plans  together — I  had  no  plans 
without  him. 

Then  there  was  a  blank,  and  a  strange  voice,  vibrant  with 
pain,  called  me  up  and  said  .  .  . 


134  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

Oh  God ! — It  can  not  be  true !  He  a  giant  in  his  youth  and 
strength;  he  with  his  vast  enjoyment  of  life,  every  nerve  and 
muscle  of  him  trained  to  the  fullest  energy;  he  struck  down 
without  a  note  of  warning  in  the  vigor  of  his  triumphant 
manhood,  while  the  old,  the  sickly  and  the  imperfect  live  on  ? 
— No,  no — this  were  not  death,  but  sacrifice. 

Why,  it  was  but  yesterday  I  felt  the  vital  grasp  of  his 
hand;  listened  to  his  brave  talk,  so  genial  a  reflex  of  his  mind 
and  spirit;  basked  in  the  brightness  of  his  frank  smile, — 
debtor  as  ever  I  was  to  his  flowing  kindness;  drank  the  cor 
dial  of  his  living  presence,  and  took  no  thought  of  fate. 

And  now  they  tell  me  he  is  dead — that  from  our  account 
of  life,  this  long  sum  of  days  and  hours  so  dreary  without 
him,  he  is  gone  forever!  Over  and  over  must  I  say  this,  or 
hear  the  dull  refrain  from  others ;  yet  the  truth  will  not  press 
home. 

For,  in  spite  of  the  dread  certainty,  I  am  not  always  with 
out  hope  of  seeing  him  again  in  the  pleasant  ways  of  life 
where  often  we  met  together;  where  never  we  parted  but 
with  a  joyous  promise  soon  to  meet  again. 

This  hope  would  be  stronger,  I  now  feel,  had  I  not  looked 
upon  him  in  that  strange  peacefulness  that  was  yet  so  com 
pelling;  and  sometimes  I  wish  they  had  not  led  me  there. 

So  hard  is  it  to  break  with  the  dear  habit  of  life — so  reluc 
tant  the  heart  to  believe  that  the  silver  cord  has  been  loosed 
which  bound  it  to  another. 

Oh,  my  lost  friend! 

The  watchers  told  me  that  they  had  never  seen  so  brave  a 
struggle  for  life.  Time  and  again  he  grappled  with  the  De 
stroyer,  like  the  strong  athlete  he  was — yes,  and  often  it 
seemed  that  his  dauntless  heart  would  prevail.  But  alas !  the 
fates  willed  otherwise. 

Then  at  last,  when  hope  was  gone,  as  he  read  in  the  tear 
ful  eyes  of  those  about  him,  he  threw  up  his  right  hand  with 
a  lamentable  gesture,  saying, — "That's  all!" 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 


135 


Not  all,  brave  and  true  heart,  for  love  can  not  lose  its  own, 
and  thy  defeat  was  still  a  victory.  Thou  livest  now  more  than 
ever  in  the  memory  of  those  who  gave  thee  love  for  love, 
yet  ever  lacked  of  thy  abounding  measure;  to  them  shalt 
thou  ever  appear  as  when  thou  didst  fall  asleep  in  the  glory 
of  thy  youth  and  strength ;  age  can  not  lay  its  cold  hand  upon 
thee,  and  thy  beloved,  dying  old  mayhap,  shall  again  find 
thee  young. 

In  that  sweet  hope,  dear  Friend  of  my  heart,  and  until 
then — farewell,  farewell ! 


Shadows* 

E  are  shadows  all  and  shadows  we  pursue.  This 
business  of  life  which  we  make-believe  to  take 
so  earnestly, — what  is  it  but  a  moth-chase  or  the 
play  of  grotesques  in  a  child's  magic  lantern? 
A  sudden  helter-skelter  of  light  and  shade,  a 
comic  jumble  of  figures  thrown  for  a  moment  on  the  screen, 
and  then — darkness ! 

Children  of  the  shadow,  to  that  Shadow  we  return  at  last; 
but  the  very  essence  of  our  life  is  fluid,  evanishing  always. 
The  minute,  the  day,  the  hour,  the  year, — who  can  lay  hands 
on  them? — and  yet  in  our  humorous  fashion  we  speak  of 
these  as  fixed  and  stable  things,  subject  to  our  control.  Mean 
time  and  all  time,  dream  delivers  us  unto  dream,  while  life 
lends  to  its  most  tangible  aspects  something  shadowy  and 
spectral,  as  the  vapors  clothe  the  horizon  with  mystery.  The 
things  we  call  realities,  in  our  vain  phrase,  that  enter  most 
deeply  into  the  warp  of  our  lives,  these  are  also  dreamstuff, 
kindred  of  the  Shadow.  Our  consciousness  from  which  we 
dare  to  apprehend  immortality,  can  only  look  backward  into 
the  realm  of  dream  and  shadow,  or  forward  into  the  realm 
of  shadow  and  dream.  I  am  at  this  moment  more  stricken  at 
the  heart  with  the  sorrow  of  a  song  that  my  mother  crooned 
to  me,  a  child,  in  the  firelight  many  years  ago,  than  with  all 
the  griefs  I  have  since  known.  Shadows,  all  shadows !  With 
my  house  full  of  romping,  laughing  children,  there  falls  now 
upon  my  heart  the  tiny  shadow  of  a  lost  babe — and  I  beat 
helpless  hands  against  the  iron  mystery  of  death.  .  .  . 

But  the  living,  too,  are  shadows,  not  less  pitiable  than  they 
whom  death  has  taken  from  our  sight.  Nay,  it  is  more  sad 


SHADOWS  137 

to  be  the  shadow  of  a  shadow  than  to  clasp  the  final  dark 
ness. 

Tell  me,  oh  dear  love,  where  now  is  the  face  that  once 
showed  me  all  the  heaven  I  cared  to  know,  the  form  that 
made  the  rapture  of  my  youth,  the  spell  which  filled  my 
breast  with  delicious  pain,  the  lips  whose  touch  so  coy,  so 
rarely  gained,  was  honey  and  myrrh  and  wine  ?  Oh,  say  not 
that  she,  too,  is  of  the  Shadow ! — 

Nay,  she  is  here  at  thy  side  and  has  never  left  thee,  but  is 
in  all  things  the  same — look  again  !  Alas  !  this  is  not  the  face 
that  charmed  my  youth,  this  is  not  the  form  that  filled  my 
dreams — and  her  eyes  were  clear  as  the  well-springs  of  Para 
dise.  But  oh,  for  pity  of  it,  let  not  my  poor  love  know  that 
her  dear  enrapturing  self,  with  our  precious  dream  in  which 
we  drew  down  heaven  to  earth,  is  gone  forever  into  the 
Shadow.  .  .  . 

We  are  shadows  all,  living  ghosts,  so  slight  of  memory 
and  consciousness  that  we  seem  to  die  many  deaths  ere  the 
final  one.  This  illusion  we  name  life  is  intermittent — hardly 
can  we  recall  what  happened  day  before  yesterday.  Even  the 
great  events  of  life  (as  we  phrase  them)  do  but  feebly  stamp 
our  weak  consciousness.  By  a  fiction  which  everyone  knows 
to  be  false,  we  make  a  pretence  of  feeling  much  and  deeply. 
'Tis  a  handsome  compliment  to  our  common  nature,  but  the 
truth  is  we  rarely  feel — our  substance  is  too  thin  and  ghost 
like. 

As  shadows  we  fly  each  other  and  are  never  really  in  con 
tact.  This  is  the  profound  deception  of  love,  the  pathos  of 
the  human  tragedy.  The  forms  we  would  clasp  make  them 
selves  thin  air;  we  strain  at  a  vacuum  and  a  shade — aye,  in 
the  most  sacred  embraces  of  love  we  hold — nothing.  Less 
hard  is  it  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven  than  to  compass  our 
desire.  But  now  at  last  we  are  to  be  satisfied,  to  have  our  fill 
of  this  dear  presence  which  spells  for  us  the  yearning  and 


138  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

mystery  of  love : — in  the  very  rapture  of  possession  we  feel 
the  eternal  cheat. 

Yet  while  we  lament  ever  that  we  can  not  lay  hands  on 
those  we  love,  shadows  that  we  are,  no  more  sure  are  we  of 
ourselves.  This  shadow  of  me  eludes  even  myself  as  I  am 
eluded  by  .the  shadows  of  others  in  the  great  phantasmal 
show  around  me.  I  know  this  shadow  of  me,  volatile,  uncer 
tain,  ever  escaping  from  under  the  hand,  and  if  I  were  not  so 
busy  chasing  my  own  shadow — the  evanescent  me — I  should 
have  more  leisure  for  hunting  other  moths  and  shadows. 
The  old  Greeks  figured  this  change  and  fugacity  in  the 
mythic  Proteus;  but  they  missed  the  deeper  sense  of  it. 

There  was  a  shadow  of  me  last  year  that  I  had  some  cause 
of  quarrel  with  and  we  parted  unkindly.  Where  is  it? — gone 
forever.  Wiser  now,  I  would  gladly  make  peace  with  that 
shadow — it  meant  honestly,  I  must  confess,  though  often  it 
sinned  and  blundered — but  never  more  will  it  walk  the  earth. 
Other  shadows  of  me  have  likewise  escaped,  leaving  similar 
accounts  unsettled  (they  never  do  put  their  affairs  in  order) 
— not  to  be  settled  now,  I  dare  say,  until  the  Great  Audit. 

I  would  not  care  to  recall  all  those  shadows  of  myself, 
even  had  I  the  power,  as  I  would  not  wish  to  live  my  life 
over  again,  without  leave  to  change  it  (He  is  a  fool  or  a  liar 
who  says  otherwise) .  But  I  may  confess  a  weakness  for  One 
that  vanished  long  ago,  leaving  me  too  soon :  a  shadow  of 
youthful  hope  and  high  purpose  that  could  do  much  to1  re 
fresh  this  jaded  heart,  dared  I  but  look  upon  it.  Oh,  kind 
Master  of  the  Show,  grant  me  once  more  to  see  that  shadow 
on  the  screen  !  Unworthy  as  I  am,  let  me  look  on  it  again  and 
strive  to  gather  new  hope  from  its  imperishable  store.  I 
know  it  dreamed  of  a  holier  love  than  I  have  realized;  of 
nobler  aims  than  I  have  had  strength  to  reach;  of  crowns 
and  triumphs  that  I  shall  never  claim.  It  believed  only  in 
good  (God  knows!)  and  since  it  left  me,  without  any  cause 
that  I  can  remember,  I  have  known  much  evil.  Yet  it  is  still 


SHADOWS 


139 


the  essential  me,  soul  of  my  soul,  and  so  must  it  be  through 
the  eternities.  I  can  not  be  separated  from  that  Brightness, 
that  Innocency,  that  Hopefulness  which  once  was  I — call  it 
back  for  but  an  instant  to  give  peace  to  my  soul ! 

Vain  appeal! — A  shadow  calling  unto  the  Shadow. 


Sursum  Corda. 


[HERE  is  a  brief  Latin  saying  which  holds  in  two 
words  the  best  philosophy  of  the  human  race. 
It  is,  Sursum  cor  da — lift  up  your  hearts ! 

Why  despair  of  this  world?  All  the  joy  you 
have  ever  known  has  been  here.   It  is  true  there 
may  be  better  beyond,  but  as  Thoreau  said,  uOne  world  at 
a  time!" 

And  now  let  us  reason  a  little.  Are  you  sure  you  have 
given  the  world  a  fair  trial — or  rather  have  you  let  it  give 
you  a  fair  trial?  Softly  now:  the  first  words  will  not  do  to 
answer  this  question — remember  it  is  not  I  who  interrogate, 
but  your  fate. 

Can  you  expect  anything  but  failure  when  you  lie  down 
and  accept  defeat  in  advance?  Anything  but  sorrow  when 
you  set  your  house  for  mourning?  Anything  but  rejection 
when  you  carry  dismay  in  your  face,  telling  all  the  world  of 
your  hope  forlorn? 

I  went  to  my  friend  asking  cheerily  and  confidently  for  a 
thing  that  seemed  hopeless:  smiling  and  without  a  second 
thought,  he  gave  me  what  I  asked.  Again  I  went  to  my 
friend  asking  humbly  and  with  little  heart  of  grace  for  a 
thing  that  I  yet  knew  was  hopeful:  frowning  he  denied  my 
prayer.  With  what  brow  thou  askest  shalt  thou  be  answered. 

Lift  up  your  hearts ! 

A  word  in  your  ear:  Have  you  ever  had  a  trouble  or  a 
sorrow  that  would  for  a  moment  weigh  with  the  sure  knowl 
edge  that  you  were  to  die  next  week,  next  month,  next  year  ? 
Be  honest  now !  .  .  . 

A  little  while  ago  I  was  very  ill,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
if  only  I  could  get  up  from  my  bed,  nothing  ever  would 


SURSUM  CORDA  14 1 

trouble  me  again.  Well,  in  time  I  was  able  to  get  up,  and 
then  the  old  worries  came  sneaking  back,  one  after  another. 
Even  as  I  write,  they  are  grinning  and  mowing  at  my  elbow, 
telling  me  that  my  work  is  futile.  I  know  I  am  happy  and 
well  now,  but  they  are  always  trying  to  persuade  me  to  the 
contrary.  I  know  that  my  hope  was  never  so  reasoned  and 
strong,  the  future  never  so  gravely  alluring;  but  they  will 
have  it  that  I  am  an  utter  bankrupt  in  my  hopes  and  the  way 
onward  closed  to  me.  I  know  my  friends — my  real  friends — - 
were  never  more  true  and  fond  and  faithful  than  they  are  to 
day — they  whisper  darkly  of  broken  faith,  evil  suspicion  and 
the  treason  of  the  soul. 

Out  upon  the  liars !  It  is  I  that  am  in  fault  to  give  them  a 
moment's  hearing.  The  broken  faith,  the  treason,  the  dis 
trust — if  any  such  there  be — are  mine  alone ;  for  in  my  own 
breast  were  these  serpents  hatched  and  the  poison  I  drink  is 
of  my  own  brewing. 

Lift  up  your  hearts ! 

Hast  thou  no  cause  to  be  happy? — look  well  now.  Thou 
wast  sick  and  thou  art  now  whole.  Weary,  thou  didst  lay 
down  a  beloved  task,  not  hoping  ever  to  take  it  up  again :  yet 
see !  it  is  in  thy  hands.  Is  not  the  wife  of  thy  youth  ever  with 
thee,  still  fair  and  kind  and  blooming?  Thou  dreamest  a 
haggard  dream  of  poverty,  while  thy  house  is  filled  with  the 
divine  riches  of  love  and  ringing  with  the  joyous  mirth  of 
thy  children.  The  musicians  of  hope  pipe  to  thee  and  thou 
wilt  not  dance;  victory  smiles  on  thee  anear  and  thou  wilt 
think  only  of  defeat.  Look ! — it  is  but  a  little  way  and  thou 
droopest  with  the  long  wished-for  haven  in  sight.  .  .  . 

Lift  up  your  hearts ! 

Yesterday  the  aeolian  harp  was  silent  all  day  in  the  win 
dow,  not  a  fugitive  air  wooing  it  to  music.  To-day  it  is  wild 
with  melody  from  every  wind  of  the  world.  So  shall  the 
brave  music  of  thy  hopes  be  renewed. 

Have  no  care  of  the  silent,  barren  yesterdays — they  are 


142 


PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 


only  good  to  carry  away  all  your  mistakes,  all  your  maimed 
purposes,  all  your  vain  brooding,  all  your  weak  irresolution, 
all  your  cowardice.  Concentrate  on  To-day  and  your  soul 
shall  be  strong  to  meet  To-morrow.  Hope,  Courage,  En 
ergy — and  You ! — against  whatever  odds.  .  .  . 
Lift  up  your  hearts ! 


Seeing  the  Old  Cown. 


'VE  been  back  seeing  the  old  town.  The  old  town 
where  I  served  the  first  years  of  my  hard  ap 
prenticeship  to  life — alas!  not  yet  completed. 
The  old  town  where,  as  a  boy,  I  dreamed  those 
bright  early  dreams  whose  fading  into  gray  fu 
tility  makes  the  dull  burden  of  every  man's  regret. 

It  may  be  that  my  dreams  were  more  varied  and  fantastic 
than  those  of  the  average  younker,  for  I  was  the  fool  o'  fancy 
with  a  poet's  wild  heart  in  my  breast.  God  knows  what  I 
promised  myself  in  that  long  vanished  time  of  youth  which 
yet  was  instantly  vivified  and  present  to  me  as  I  trod  the 
streets  of  the  old  town.  I  felt  like  one  about  to  see  a  ghost— 
the  ghost  of  my  young  self;  and  I  shrank  consciously  from 
meeting  it  with  this  bitter-sweet  pang  of  disillusion  at  my 
heart.  I  could  not  more  sensibly  have  feared  a  living  pres 
ence.  Alas,  what  one  of  us  all  is  worthy,  after  the  heavy 
account  of  years,  to  confront  the  ghost  of  his  candid  youth? 
—what  one  but  must  bow  the  head  before  that  pitying  yet 
reproachful  Memory? 

This  feeling  took  such  strong  hold  upon  me  that  soon  I 
hastened  away  from  the  too-familiar  squares  and  corners,  so 
poignantly  reminiscent  of  that  other  Me,  and  went  to  the 
hotel  facing  Main  street.  But  even  here,  seated  at  a  window 
and  elbowed  by  a  group  of  story-swapping  drummers,  I 
could  not  free  myself  from  the  spell  of  old  memories.  Youth 
with  its  hundred  voices  cried  to  me ;  the  past  and  the  present 
became  at  once  strangely  confused  yet  separable;  and  I  was 
set  to  the  painful  task  of  tracing  and  identifying  my  younger 
self  in  the  crowd  of  passers-by. 

And  I  did  find  that  boy  again — oh  yes !  I  did  find  him  in 


144  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

spite  of  the  lapse  of  many  changing  years  and  all  that  Time 
has  wrought  within  and  without  me  since  he  and  I  were  one. 
I  found  him,  though  he  was  long  shy  and  hesitated  to  come 
out  of  the  shadows ;  holding  back  timidly  and  looking  on  me 
with  tender  yet  doubtful  eyes — ah  God !  I  knew  whence  the 
doubt.  But  at  last  he  came  fully,  careless  of  the  roaring 
drummers  or  knowing  himself  to  be  unseen;  and  I  held  his 
hand  in  mine,  while  a  sweet  sorrow  beat  against  my  heart  in 
the  thought  of  what  might  have  been  and  now  could  never 
be.  And  after  the  kind  relief  of  tears,  we  talked  in  whispers 
a  long  time  there  by  the  window,  no  one  noticing  us ;  and  ere 
he  went  back  into  the  shadow  he  touched  my  forehead  lightly 
with  his  lips,  leaving  me  as  one  whom  God  has  assoiled.  .  .  . 

The  old  town  was  but  little  changed,  only  it  seemed 
smaller,  like  all  places  we  have  known  in  our  youth  and  been 
long  absent  from.  The  Main  street,  where  the  working  boys 
and  girls  flirt  and  promenade  in  an  endless  chain,  still 
slouched  the  whole  length  of  the  town,  with  the  railroad  be 
tween  it  and  the  river;  no  different  except  that  it  was  better 
paved  than  in  my  time,  and  the  clanging  trolleys  ran  instead 
of  the  ancient  bob-tailed  horse-cars.  There  were  a  few  new 
shops  or  strange  names  over  the  old  ones — no  other  changes 
of  consequence.  The  same  old  town ! — the  boy  of  twenty 
years  ago  would  not  have  been  phased  in  the  least. 

But  I  was,  and  the  fact  was  due  to  the  changes  which  Time 
had  written  upon  so  many  faces  I  had  known;  fair  young 
girls  turned  into  full-blown  matrons,  vaunting  their  offspring 
with  no  lack  of  words,  or  withered  old  maids  looking  ask 
ance  and  shrinking  from  recognition;  striplings  who  had 
shot  up  into  solid  manhood,  and  whom  you  were  puzzled  to 
place;  broken  old  men  whom  you  recalled  in  their  vigorous 
prime ;  all  the  varied  human  derelicts  of  the  storm  and  stress 
of  twenty  years.  Oh,  it  makes  a  man  think  to  look  things 
over  every  five  years  or  so  in  the  old  town. 

Certainly,  if  you  wish  to  get  a  true  line  on  yourself,  go 


SEEING  THE  OLD  TOWN  145 

back  to  the  old  town.  Nothing  else  will  do  the  trick.  Your 
glass  is  a  liar  leagued  with  your  vanity.  Your  wife  a  loving 
flatterer  who  says  the  thing  that  is  not.  Your  children  will 
never  tell  you  how  old  you  are  beginning  to  look.  Your  daily 
intimates  and  coevals  are  concerned  to  keep  up  the  same  illu 
sion  for  themselves.  You  deceive  yourself,  know  it  and  are 
happy  in  the  deception.  There  is  only  one  way  for  you  to 
learn  the  ubitter,  wholesome  truth,"  or,  in  other  words,  to 
get  a  fair  look  at  the  clock — go  back  to  the  old  town ! 

There  is  some  humor,  too,  in  going  back,  as  I  find  from 
my  visits  at  an  interval  of  five  or  six  years.  Always  I  am  most 
heartily  and  noisily  greeted  by  men  who  have  no  use  for  me 
except  to  "knock"  me,  whom  the  sight  or  sound  of  my  name 
exasperates,  to  whom  my  tiny  bit  of  success  is  poison,  and 
who  struggle  on  bravely  with  the  hope  of  seeing  me  finally 
land  where  I  deserve  to  be  and  am,  as  they  fervently  believe, 
irretrievably  headed.  We  do  each  other  good,  for  if  I  were 
to  die,  these  men  would  lose  one  of  the  sweetest  motives  of 
their  existence;  and  I,  knowing  this,  am  eager  to  live  on  and 
disappoint  them. 

Last  time  I  went  back  I  saw  one  of  those  friendly  fellows 
at  a  distance  of  a  block,  and  he  kept  his  glad  hand  out  at  the 
risk  of  paralysis,  until  we  came  together.  Then  how  he 
laughed  with  pleasure  and  what  a  grip  he  gave  me  !  I  had  to 
laugh  with  him  and  return  his  grip,  so  far  as  my  feeble 
strength  would  allow.  In  an  acquaintance  of  over  twenty 
years  this  fellow  had  never  offered  me  the  slightest  proof  of 
his  friendship,  save,  as  I  have  said,  to  "knock"  me;  and  now 
a  dear  friend  of  mine  hung  modestly  back  while  he  crushed 
me  in  his  iron  embrace.  When  I  was  going  away  at  the  end 
of  my  visit,  this  terrible  enemy  came  to  the  nine  o'clock  train 
to  see  me  off  and  spoiled  the  leave-taking  of  my  real  friends. 
There  is  irony  of  the  same  brand  elsewhere,  but  you  will  not 
see  it  to  such  naked  advantage  as  in  the  old  town.  .  .  . 

The  saddest  experience  one  can  have  in  revisiting  the  old 


146  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

town  is  to  hear  suddenly  of  the  death  of  some  friend  of  one's 
youth,  who  though  separated  from  one  by  long  years  of 
absence,  must  ever  share  in  the  romance  of  that  enchanted 
period.  I  was  so  to  learn  of  the  loss  of  a  friend  who  had 
been  very  dear  to  me  in  the  old  days.  Together  we  had 
trudged  the  Main  street  of  the  old  town,  by  night  and  by 
day,  making  plans  for  the  future,  few  of  which  were  realized 
either  for  him  or  for  me. 

The  friendships  of  youth  are  sacred.  Mature  life  has  noth 
ing  to  offer  in  their  place.  Men  agree  to  like  each  other  for 
social  or  business  reasons;  often  because  they  fear  each 
other.  The  heart  is  not  touched  in  this  hollow  alliance — it  is 
a  pact  of  interest  and  selfishness.  Youth  and  trust,  age  and 
cynicism — thus  are  they  paired. 

I  know  well  that  one  or  two  young  friendships  or  frank 
elections  of  the  heart  have  yielded  me  much  of  the  pain  and 
thrill  and  rapture  of  that  sentiment  between  the  sexes  which 
we  call  love.  I  know  that  I  was  several  years  older  ere  the 
voice  of  a  girl  had  leave  to  thrill  me  like  the  tone  of  this  dear 
lost  friend;  that  I  suffered  as  keenly  during  an  occasional 
boyish  miff  with  him  as  in  my  first  genuine  love  quarrels; 
that  I  would  have  risked  life  and  limb  to  please  him,  and 
could  conceive  of  nothing  sweeter  than  his  praise;  that  I  can 
not  think  of  him  even  now  without  a  pain  at  the  heart  which 
I  have  not  the  skill  to  analyze.  And  though  I  saw  little  of 
him  for  many  years  and  there  was  no  attempt  to  follow  up 
our  ancient  friendship — our  paths  lying  wide  apart  in  every 
sense — and  though  he  died  a  man  of  middle  age,  I  can  but 
think  of  him, — taking  no  note  at  all  of  the  years  that  lie 
between, — as  a  bright-haired,  laughing  youth;  and  so  mourn 
him  with  a  sorrow  of  the  heart  which  proves  a  silent  witness 
there  during  all  the  years  to  the  truth  o>f  our  early  affection. 

There  is  somthing  divine,  though  we  but  dimly  glimpse  it, 
in  the  una vowed,  almost  unconscious  persistence  of  these  sacred 
ties  of  our  youth,  these  precious  legacies  from  the  days  that 


SEEING  THE  OLD  TOWN  147 

are  no  more,  whose  light  shines  with  a  white  lustre  that  be 
longs  to  them  alone. 

Sleep  well,  my  friend ! 

I  was  not  sorry  to  have  seen  the  old  town  again,  though  it 
gave  me  but  a  sad  pleasure  at  best  and  I  was  glad  when  my 
short  leave  was  up.  And  yet  that  singular  thrill  of  walking 
where  once  you  knew  and  were  known  of  everybody,  and 
where  still,  because  of  some  slight  rumors  from  the  great 
outlying  world,  a  quenchless  village  curiosity  attends  you,  is 
worth  going  a  long  journey  to  feel. 

To  say  nothing  of  your  joyous  enemy  who  hails  you  with 
stentorian  shout  and  glad  hand  extended,  on  your  arrival,  and 
likewise  dismisses  you  on  your  departure  with  curses  not  loud 
but  deep.  And  the  many  things  you  see  and  hear  and  feel 
which,  without  compliment,  certify  you  to  yourself  as  you 
are! 


H  Rearty  6od 


JET  us  believe  in  George  Meredith's  "God  of 
hearty  humor."  He  would,  I  am  sure,  be  very 
different  from  the  Jewish  God,  that  terrible 
Being  who  was  never  known  to  smile,  and  in 
whose  awful  shadow  the  children  of  men  have 
mourned  and  done  penance  during  weary  ages.  We  should 
turn  away  from  that  lurid  history  in  which  there  is  no  inno 
cent  mirth,  whose  triumphs  are  often  stained  with  the  blood 
of  the  guiltless  and  from  whose  pages  men  have  wrested  a 
warrant  for  their  blackest  crimes.  We  should  forget  it  ut 
terly — its  blighting  and  cursing,  its  groveling  worship,  its 
denial  of  humanity  in  the  name  of  a  self-styled  God  of 
Mercy,  its  craven  prostration  before  the  jealous  Egotist  of 
the  heavens. 

Our  God  of  hearty  humor  is  one  who  would  not  lie  in 
wait,  nursing  His  malice  against  us  poor  human  mites,  spy 
ing  upon  us  constantly,  and  rejoicing  in  His  enormous  power 
of  mischief.  Who  would  not  punish  the  children  for  the  sins 
of  the  fathers.  Who  would  not  play  favorites  and  set  one 
race  to  destroy  another.  Who  would  not  have  an  insatiable 
appetite  for  foolish  incense  and  mumbled  praise.  Who  would 
not  be  a  mean  God  for  mean  people,  preferring  those  made 
in  His  own  image  and  likeness.  Who  would  hate  to  see  the 
spiritual  distortions  that  are  now  practised  before  the  Other, 
in  the  name  of  religion.  Who  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
an  Atonement  of  cruelty  and  blood.  Who  would  be  a  kind 
human  God  for  human  beings  and  not  a  mythical  monster 
belonging  to  a  remote  age  of  nightmare  and  darkness.  Who 
would  get  tired  sometimes  of  His  majesty  up  there  and  come 
down  and  visit  with  us.  Having  His  laugh  with  us — ah,  then 


A  HEARTY  GOD  149 

to  be  witty  would  no  longer  be  sinful  and  sanctified  dulness 
would  lose  its  crown.  Shouldn't  we  enjoy  the  humor  of  God, 
especially  the  immense  joke  that  we  quite  mistook  His  char 
acter  during  ages  and  ages? — stupendous  hoax!  Hearing 
our  complaints  with  kind  indulgence  and  disproving  that  old 
libel  that  one  may  not  see  God  and  live.  Being,  in  short,  a 
hearty  God  whom  a  plain  man  could  talk  to  without  the  help 
of  bell,  book  or  candle,  and  who  would  care  for  us,  His  little 
ones,  as  tenderly  as  we  care  for  our  own.  What  a  re-writing 
there  would  be  of  the  legend  of  God !  What  a  discrediting  of 
the  old  fables!  What  a  tearing  down  of  the  old  hideous 
idols  before  which  the  world  has  prostrated  itself  for  a  thou 
sand  and  a  thousand  years ! — for  there  should  be  no  lifeless 
images  to  the  Living  God.  What  an  abandonment  of  the 
churches ! — for  this  God  would  meet  us  naturally  anywhere, 
at  home  or  abroad  in  the  fields.  What  a  wiping  out  of  the 
creeds! — knowing  Him  face  to  face,  we  should  not  have  to 
set  down  our  belief  in  a  book,  lest  we  forget  it  over  night. 
What  a  wholesale  dismissal  of  His  self-appointed  agents  and 
intermediaries ! — no  one  should  stand  between  this  God  and 
the  humblest  of  his  children.  What  a  new  heaven,  what  a  new 
earth  in  the  sure  presence  of  a  kind,  hearty  God,  who  would 
manifest  Himself  equally  to  all  His  people !  .  .  . 

Perhaps  it  is  not  so  hard  to  believe  that  such  a  God  is  with 
us  even  now  .  .  .  if  we  will  only  stop  thinking  of  the 
Other! 


Che  Better  Day. 

OMETIMES  I  see  as  in  a  vision  a  fairer  and  bet 
ter  world  than  this  in  which  man  is  still  the 
prey  of  man  and  the  race  still  travails  under  the 
primal  curse.  A  fairer  and  better  world  and  yet 
the  same. 

The  same  green  plains  and  rolling  rivers,  the  same  ban 
nered  forests  and  flower-decked  meadows,  the  same  happy 
orchards  and  smiling  fields,  the  same  succession  of  seed-time 
and  harvest,  the  same  processional  of  the  seasons,  with  the 
blue  sky  over  all. 

But  not  the  same  faces  and  forms  of  men  and  women 
and  children — not  the  same  their  life  in  the  thronged  cities 
where  labor,  wolf-like,  feeds  on  labor,  poverty  devours  pov 
erty,  and  the  many  toil  hopelessly  for  the  few — not  the  same 
in  the  meagre  villages  where  the  strong  man  pines  in  his 
unfruitful  strength  and  old  age  is  a  mendicant,  nor  in  the 
wide  country,  rich  with  corn  and  wheat,  whose  wealth  is  not 
for  the  tillers : — not  the  same  wherever  human  destiny  is  cast. 

I  look,  and  lo !  I  see  beautiful  and  ordered  cities  occupying 
larger  spaces,  with  homes  of  comfort  and  beauty  for  all  the 
dwellers  therein.  I  mark  no  divisions  of  rich  and  poor,  of 
proud  and  humble,  of  vicious  and  virtuous,  of  law-abiding 
and  disorderly.  I  see  no  gallows  for  the  felon,  no  jail  for  the 
criminal,  no  court  for  crime,  no  brothel  for  the  prostitute, 
no  workhouse  for  poverty,  no  hospital  for  disease — none  of 
all  the  nameless  refuges  into  which  society  casts  the  rejected, 
the  fallen  and  the  despised. 

Instead  of  these  terrible  and  familiar  things,  I  see  health 
universal  as  the  air,  virtue  that  needs  no  policeman,  honesty 
that  goes  unwatched  and  unsuspect,  content  and  competency 


THE  BETTER  DAY  151 

for  all.  I  see  many  and  noble  schools,  some  in  spacious  build 
ings,  others  in  the  open  parks  and  pleasure  places,  the  teach 
ers  mingling  freely  with  the  eager,  happy  children;  and  I 
note  with  joy  that  there  is  an  end  of  the  old  instruction  of 
constraint  and  fear. 

I  see  with  greater  joy  and  thankfulness  that  among  all 
these  children  of  the  Better  Day  there  is  no  defect  of  mind, 
no  deformity  of  body;  that  they  were  conceived  and  begot 
ten  in  the  love  that  can  not  libel  itself.  And  I  rejoice  that 
there  should  be  an  end  of  that  old  blasphemy  declaring  the 
idiot,  the  halt  and  the  blind,  the  wen,  the  hare-lip  and  the 
ulcer  to  have  been  made  in  the  image  of  God. 

I  see  churches  of  a  more  liberal  and  humane  religion, 
temples  of  a  higher  art,  theatres  of  a  nobler  drama,  orpheons 
of  a  grander  music,  recreations  of  a  better  and  more  elevat 
ing  kind,  open  to  all  the  people.  I  am  stricken  with  wonder 
at  the  demeanor  of  these  worthy  citizens,  at  their  sage  and 
just  observations,  their  unerring  sense  of  artistic  beauty  and 
fitness,  the  culture  and  largeness  of  view,  common  to  all, 
which  accompany  their  better  lot. 

I  see  on  every  hand  unhurried,  skillful  industry  that  seems 
to  me  superior  to  much  of  the  so-called  art  of  our  own  day. 
I  mark  the  fine  proportions  of  the  private  dwellings,  the 
heroic  symmetry  of  the  public  structures,  the  true  harmony 
in  which  all  are  coordinated.  I  see  carpenters  and  house- 
smiths  working  with  the  dignity  of  sculptors,  mechanics 
proud  of  their  artizanry,  a  new  honor  in  all  the  trades.  I  see 
labor  unforced,  erect,  independent  everywhere.  I  hear  no 
brutal  commands,  I  see  no  servile  or  sullen  obedience.  I  per 
ceive  only  the  will  of  free  men  in  voluntary  action,  delighting 
to  serve  and  adorn  the  city  of  their  homes.  And  in  all  these 
grand  cities  I  see  no  pampered  idleness,  no  uesless  hands,  no 
listless  slaves  of  luxury,  no  swollen  drones  absorbing  the 
riches  of  the  hive,  no  parasites  whose  ease  is  purchased  by 


1 5  2  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

the  blood  and  sweat  of  thousands.  But  I  see  that  there  is  la 
bor  and  leisure  enough  for  all. 

Now  looking  to  the  country,  I  see  as  it  were  a  vast  and 
variegated  garden  made  up  of  multitudes  of  smiling  farms, 
with  every  acre  yielding  its  due  produce,  every  rood  under 
tillage,  and  labor  here  as  in  the  cities,  content,  calm  and 
self-sustaining.  I  see  that  at  last  the  city  and  the  country 
live  for,  not  to  prey  upon  or  devour,  each  other.  I  look 
upon  such  a  population  as  the  world  has  never  seen,  filling 
the  earth  with  joy  and  mirth,  with  love  and  useful  labor, 
with  the  blessings  of  peace,  the  trophies  of  art,  the  achieve 
ments  of  industry.  I  see  no  idle,  menacing  armies,  no  hosts 
of  men  withdrawn  from  the  pursuits  of  peace,  no  cannoneers 
waiting  with  match  and  fuse,  no  quarrel  broached  on  sea  or 
land,  no  priests  arrayed  to  bless  and  sanction  slaughter,  no 
sword  unsheathed,  no  whip  upraised,  no  cowering  tortured 
form,  no  people  bowed  beneath  oppression,  no  despot  defiant 
of  justice — nothing  to  mar  the  universal  brotherhood  under 
the  smile  of  God !  .  .  . 

Oh,  call  it  not  a  foolish  vision,  crudely  as  I  have  here 
sought  to  put  it  into  words, — for  it  has  been  the  consoling 
dream  of  the  noblest  souls  that  have  ever  worn  the  vesture 
of  humanity.  It  was  this  which  inspired  the  martyrs  of  free 
dom,  and  filled  with  light  the  dungeons  of  the  brave;  this 
which  robbed  the  rack  of  pain,  took  away  the  sting  of  the 
most  cruel  death,  and  welcomed  the  stern  trial  of  the  fire.  Be 
it  ours  to  pray  for  it,  to  watch  for  it,  to  struggle  for  it  with 
patient  loyalty,  to  bring  up  our  children  in  the  holy  faith  of 
it,  to  consecrate  and  dedicate  to  it  the  best  purpose  of  our 
lives. 

So  shall  those  who  come  after  bless  us  in  the  light  of  that 
Better  Day,  paying  to  our  dust  the  homage  of  their  praise 
and  tears;  lamenting  that  we  can  not  share  in  the  glorious 
fruition.  So  shall  we  be  sure  that  we  have  not  lived  in  vain ! 


H  JVIodern  Reresy. 


N  THE  beginning  we  are  told  the  good  God  or 
dained  that  some  of  His  human  children  should 
play  and  more  of  them  should  labor.  So  it  has 
continued  to  this  day,  to  the  entire  satisfaction 
of  the  playing  children. 

These  latter  were  never  so  numerous  in  the  world  as  they 
are  in  the  present  year  of  grace.  They  were  never  so  rich 
and  they  never  had  so  many  beautiful  and  ingenious  play 
things — the  world  is  literally  a  doll's  house  to  them.  It  is  for 
them  to  sing : 

The  world  is  so  full  of  all  manner  of  things, 
I  think  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

I  say  they  were  never  so  numerous,  because  the  labor  of 
the  children  who  toil  is  ever  creating  new  wealth,  the  ma 
terial  of  pleasure,  and  this  increases  the  number  of  the  chil 
dren  who  play.  Mark  you,  without  really  diminishing  the 
great  host  of  working  children. 

Of  course,  these  are  often  discontented  with  their  lot,  and 
sometimes  they  even  threaten  to  knock  off  work  entirely  and 
go>  in  for  play  themselves.  But  it  never  quite  comes  to  this, 
for  law  and  authority,  the  forces  of  organized  society,  are 
always  on  the  side  of  the  playing  children.  And  when  the 
laboring  children  actually  leave  the  work-bench,  the  forge, 
the  mine,  the  factory,  proposing  foolishly  to  themselves  to 
imitate  their  betters,  then  the  thing  is  called  a  Strike,  the  sol 
diers  are  brought  out  to  terrify  the  unwilling  workers,  often 
many  of  these  are  killed  in  the  violence  that  is  sure  to  follow, 
and  presently  all  is  again  as  before :  the  laboring  children  la- 


154  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

bor  and  the  playing  children  play.  If  a  strike  were  to  last 
very  long, — that  is,  long  enough  to  inconvenience  the  playing 
children, — then  it  would  be  called  Anarchy  and  there  would 
surely  be  War.  But  that  dreadful  thing  has  seldom  hap 
pened,  and  so  the  playing  children  have  small  fear  of  it. 

It  is  very  hard  to  break  down  an  ordinance  of  the  good 
God.  And  yet  this  one  regulating  the  division  of  labor  and 
play,  has  stood  so  long,  not  perhaps  so  much  through  the  will 
of  the  playing  children  and  those  in  authority,  as  through 
the  patient  submission  of  the  working  children  themselves, 
who  for  the  most  part  love  and  believe  in  God,  and  especially 
believe  that  the  Son  of  God  while  upon  this  earth  was  like 
unto  themselves.  So  they  have  been  patient,  very  patient, 
and  I  think  will  be  so  to  the  very  end — the  end  that  shall 
give  them  at  last  their  due  portion  of  play. 

Yes,  there  were  never  so  many  playing  children  and  never 
SO'  much  play  in  the  world.  And  it  really  is  a  beautiful  world 
to  play  in,  if  only  one  had  the  time  for  it,  and  the  money! 
But  money  and  time,  the  two  chief  requisites  of  play,  can 
not  be  for  any  man,  except  through  the  labor  of  others. 
Herein  is  seen  the  wisdom  of  the  good  God — without  the 
children  who  labor  there  would  be  no  children  who  play ! 

To  be  sure,  there  are  certain  men  called  Anarchists  and 
Socialists  by  those  in  authority,  who  propose  that  all  shall 
labor  and  all  shall  play,  on  equal  terms.  In  other  words,  that 
there  shall  be  no  longer  a  distinct  division  of  the  children 
who  labor  and  the  children  who  play.  But  this  plan  is  re 
garded  by  the  churches  as  an  impiety — there  is  no  warrant 
for  it  in  the  Bible,  they  say,  and  it  clearly  was  not  the  in 
tention  of  the  good  God.  Has  He  not  always  played  favor 
ites,  according  to  the  Book  which  is  called  His  Word;  set 
ting  some  of  His  children  to  rob  and  slaughter  others,  equal 
ly  His  children ;  wiping  out  the  guiltless  and  taking  their  in 
heritance;  filling  whole  regions  of  the  earth  with  needless 
suffering,  and  blood,  and  tears?  It  is  true  the  meaning  of  the 


A  MODERN  HERESY  155 

Holy  Book  seems  often  obscure  in  the  light  of  common 
sense  and  has  to  be  interpreted  by  an  Authority  which  prac 
tically  stopped  guessing  about  it  over  a  thousand  years  ago ! 

In  the  past  the  efforts  of  men  to  understand  the  Bible  dif 
ferently  from  the  teachings  of  Authority,  often  led  to  bloody 
wars.  But  if  you  will  hearken  to  the  churches,  there  has 
never  been  a  heresy  so  dangerous  to  Sacred  Truth  or  one 
that  carried  so  formidable  a  menace  to  the  divinely  appoint 
ed  system  of  things,  as  this  of  the  men  called  Socialists  and 
Anarchists — namely,  that  the  human  race,  all  children  of 
God,  should  not  be  divided  into  two  groups,  enormously 
unequal,  of  those  that  labor  and  those  that  play.  Many  of 
the  playing  children  are  at  bitter  odds  as  to  the  meaning  of 
the  Bible  in  various  texts  and  places — nay,  to  a  considerable 
number  of  them  the  Holy  Book  seems  a  very  dull  joke  and 
their  lives  are  often  a  mockery  of  its  precepts.  But  on  the 
point  that  they  and  their  kind  shall  be  suffered  to  play  for 
ever,  they  are  all  in  perfect  accord  and  as  one  mind.  The 
forces  of  law  and  authority  are  on  the  same  side  and  also 
the  weight  of  that  immense  legacy  of  traditional  ignorance, 
superstition,  brutality  and  injustice  which  is  misnamed  civil 
ization. 

So  it  is  bound  to  take  a  long  time,  a  very  long  time  yet;  but 
I  believe  the  Plan  will  be  tried  one  day.  And  if  it  shall  suc 
ceed  (which  I  believe  also)  then  the  good  God  will  be  wor 
shipped  in  this  beautiful  world  of  His  as  He  never  was 
through  the  cruel  ages  when  He  turned  one  face  to  the  chil 
dren  of  labor  and  another  to  the  children  of  play. 


familiar  philosophy. 


Rope. 

AST  ever  been  in  Hell,  dear  child  of  God  ?  Hast 
fallen  down — down — down  to  those  rayless 
depths  where  thou  couldst  no  longer  feel  the  sup 
porting  hand  of  God  and  where  thou  didst  seem 
to  taste  the  agony  of  the  last  abandonment? 
Hast  known  that  terrible  remorse  wherein  the  soul  executes 
judgment  on  herself — true  image  it  may  be  of  the  Last 
Judgment — that  night  of  the  spirit  whence  hope  and  blessed 
ness  seem  to  have  utterly  departed?  Hast  known  all  this, 
dear  child  of  God,  not  once  but  many  times? — nay,  livest 
thou  in  a  constant  dread  expectation  of  knowing  this  again 
and  again,  so  long  as  thy  soul  liveth?  Then,  be  of  good 
hope,  for  thou  art  indeed  a  Child  of  God ! 

There  be  many  ways  of  winning  Heaven,  dear  heart,  but 
this  is  of  the  surest — to  know  and  feel  Hell  in  this  world. 
And  the  more  terribly  thou  comest  to  realize  in  thy  spirit 
the  horror  and  desolation  of  Hell  here,  the  better  approved 
is  thy  heirship  in  the  Kingdom.  For  when  thy  feet  take 
hold  on  Hell,  then  of  a  truth  thy  hope  is  high  as  Heaven. 

This  too,  forget  not,  is  the  trial  and  test  of  all  fine  souls 
— saints  of  God,  martyrs  of  humanity,  the  great  mystics 
and  dreamers,  the  chosen  of  our  race,  whose  names  partake 
of  the  eternal  life  and  glory  of  the  stars.  Wouldst  thou 
be  of  a  better  company  ?  All  these  great  and  victorious  souls 
had  known  Hell  to  its  uttermost  depths,  had  tasted  its  most 
bitter  anguish,  had  suffered  its  most  fearful  agonies,  had 
drunk  the  cup  of  its  awful  despair,  and  had  cried  out  under 
the  burthen  of  doom,  like  Him  on  the  Cross,  that  their  God 


FAMILIAR  PHILOSOPHY  157 

had  forsaken  them.  Yet  all  were  sons  of  God  and  proved 
their  titles  by  conquering  Hell  in  this  world. 

Even  as  they  fought  the  good  fight  and  prevailed,  so  shalt 
thou,  brave  heart.  Be  glad  and  rejoice  that  thou  art  called 
upon  to  endure  the  same  great  trial,  as  being  worthy  of  their 
fellowship.  Thy  deep-dwelling  sorrows,  thine  agonies  of 
spirit, — nay,  thy  wrestling  with  Powers  of  Darkness  and  all 
the  supra-mortal  venture  of  thy  soul  which  thou  deemest 
laid  upon  thee  as  a  curse, — do  but  seal  and  stamp  thee  God's 
darling.  For  none  can  reach  the  heights  who  has  not  known 
the  depths,  and  though  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  be  not  of 
this  world,  most  surely  is  the  Kingdom  of  Hell. 

Courage,  dear  child  of  God ! 

Jl      <H      jl 

Low* 


OVE  is  for  the  loving. 

There  is  but  one  well  in  the  world  that  grows 
ever  the  richer  and  sweeter  and  more  plenteous 
by  giving. 

That  well  is  the  human  heart  and  its  living 
waters  are  those  of  love. 

Yet  herein  is  the  wonder  of  it,  that  the  man  who  thinks 
he  hath  need  of  it  but  seldom  shall  not  at  his  desire  get  more 
than  a  scanty  draught,  and  the  sweet  water  will  turn  bitter  in 
his  mouth. 

Ye  have  heard  it  said,  to  him  that  hath  shall  be  given :  this 
is  the  meaning  thereof. 

Spend  yourself  in  loving  that  you  may  be  often  athirst 
for  the  life-giving  water.     But  count  not  to  drink  unto  re 
freshing  unless  you  come  weary  and  blessed  from  the  service 
of  love.    Then,  ah  then,  the  sweetness  of  the  draught !  .  .  . 
Love  is  for  the  loving. 


1 5  8  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

I  spake  some  harsh  words  to  my  dear  love,  thinking  my 
self  in  the  right  and  forgetting  the  Law  of  Kindness.  Then, 
as  I  was  turning  away  in  anger,  the  sight  of  her  pale  face, 
with  its  mute  reproach,  smote  me  to  the  heart.  I  took  her 
in  my  arms  and  we  wept  the  most  precious  tears  together. 
O  divine  moment,  in  that  sacred  hush,  with  her  heart  beat 
ing  against  mine,  I  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  angels  listening. 


Sympathy !  Sympathy !  More  and  more  I  tell  myself  this  is 
the  master  word. 

We;  are  constantly  seeking  our  own  in  darkness  and  light, 
awake  or  adream ;  reaching  out  our  longing  arms  toward  the 
Infinite;  sending  forth  our  filaments  of  thought;  summoning 
the  One  who  shall  know  and  feel,  with  a  passion  of  desire; 
praying  for  that  rare  response  which  crowns  the  chief  ex 
pectancy  of  life.  Not  always  do  our  arms  fall  empty;  not  al 
ways  do  our  thoughts  return  to  mock  our  vain  quest;  not 
always  are  our  prayers  unanswered  and  our  hearts  left  void 
and  cold. 

I  hold  this  to  be  of  the  true  divinity  of  life,  this  kinship  of 
the  spirit  which  will  leave  no  man  or  woman  at  rest  but  ever 
insists  upon  working  out  its  exigent  yet  benign  destiny,  form 
ing  those  sweet  and  consoling  relations  which  are  our  best 
joy  here  and  may  be  our  eternal  satisfaction. 

For  the  expectancy  of  love  and  sympathy, — that  is  to  say, 
understanding — is  one  that  never  dies  in  the  human  heart.  I 
may  be  sad,  or  dull,  or  cold,  or  out  of  touch  with  reality;  I 
may  persuade  myself  that  there  is  no  longer  any  pith  in  my 
mystery,  that  the  years  have  left  me  bankrupt  in  the  essen 
tial  stuff  of  life;  that  there  is  no  remaining  use  for  me  under 
the  sun.  But  let  my  heart  be  apprised,  in  the  faintest  whis 
per,  of  the  advent  or  imminence  of  a  new  friend,  and  lo !  the 
world  is  fresh-made,  the  heavens  constellated  with  hope  and 
joy  and  wonder  as  on  the  first  day. 


FAMILIAR  PHILOSOPHY  159 

Life  is  truly  measured  only  by  such  love  or  expectancy; 
when  that  fails  it  is  the  same  story  for  king  and  beggar. 

Love  is  the  summoner,  love  is  the  seeker,  love  the  expec 
tancy  and  love  the  fulfilment.  Blessed  be  Love ! 

I  have  said  that  we  can  not  lose  our  own  and  are  always 
seeking  them  by  various  means.  Let  me  cite  a  familiar  in 
stance  which  many  readers  will  easily  parallel  from  their 
own  experience.  But  it  is  the  familiar  instance  that  really 
proves. 

A  year  or  so  ago  I  was  deeply  moved  by  the  wretched  fate 
of  a  man  of  genius  whom  I  had  loved  for  his  mind  and  ad 
mired  for  his  art  and  pitied  for  his  terrible  misfortunes.  I 
said  my  say  on  the  matter,  with  sincerity  at  least,  and  those 
words  of  mine  brought  me  precious  letters  of  praise  and  sym 
pathy  from  unknown  friends  in  foreign  lands,  who  had  also 
been  friends  of  the  fallen  man  of  genius.  Then,  some  time 
afterward,  I  read  in  an  American  journal  a  letter  on  the  same 
subject  by  a  man  whose  name  was  unknown  to  me,  but  whose 
quickened  expression  of  my  own  feelings — pity  for  the  dead, 
thanks  for  his  rare  gifts  of  which  art  has  the  immortal  usu 
fruct,  charity  for  his  errors  and  scorn  for  the  Pharisaic  spirit 
that  exulted  in  an  orgy  of  reprobation  over  the  obscure 
grave  where  he  had  at  last  found  peace  and  a  safe  refuge 
from  the  hunters — called  the  tears  to  my  eyes  and  the  blood 
to  my  heart.  I  tried  to  learn  the  writer's  address  in  order  to 
thank  him  for  the  emotion  he  had  given  me,  but  failed  for 
reasons  which  I  need  not  explain.  Months  passed  away, 
during  which  I  thought  of  the  writer  often,  with  a  certain 
motiveless  feeling,  too,  that  I  could  afford  to  wait;  and  then 
one  day  there  fluttered  into  my  hand  a  letter  from  him !  Just 
such  a  letter  as  I  should  have  expected  from  one  whose  mind 
and  heart  were  an  open  book  to  me;  artless  and  cordial,  as  a 
man  should  write  to  his  friend.  He,  too,  had  been  seeking 
me,  having  somehow  learned  of  the  strong  tie  of  sympathy 


160  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

between  us ;  and  the  thing  harassed  him,  as  he  frankly  con 
fessed,  until  he  had  found  me. 

Oh,  I  do  not  claim  that  there  is  anything  extraordinary  in 
this  little  coincidence,  for  I  am  not  a  believer  in  the  extra 
ordinary — the  ordinary  keeping  my  curiosity  and  sense  of 
wonder  fully  occupied.  But  surely  it  establishes  something 
for  the  kinship  of  sympathy  and  the  intuitive  mutual  quest  of 
related  spirits. 

My  prayer  to  the  Infinite  is  that  I  may  be  suffered  to  go  on 
to  the  end,  seeking  .  .  .  seeking.  For  I  say  again, 
Love  is  the  summoner,  Love  is  the  seeker,  Love  the  expec 
tancy  and  Love  the  fulfilment.  Blessed  be  Love ! 


Yes,  dear,  do  you  go  on  sending  me  those  sweet  messages 
full  of  praise,  and  hope,  and  inspiration,  holding  always  be 
fore  me  the  Ideal,  keeping  me  to  the  plane  of  my  better  self. 
I  may  not  feel  that  I  deserve  a  tenth  part  of  your  faith  in 
me — no  matter,  some  day  I  may  be  worthy  of  your  praise. 
And  even  though  I  should  never  reach  the  summit  of  your  ap 
preciation,  still  the  glory  will  be  yours  of  having  urged  me  to 
the  endeavor.  You  are  the  height  and  I  am  the  depth;  you 
are  the  star  shining  in  the  Infinite  and  I  the  poor  vainly  as 
piring  worm  on  the  earth  below :  yet  in  some  fortunate  hour 
I  may  be  lifted  to  you. 

For  we  do  not  make  the  supreme  effort  of  our  souls  for 
the  many,  but  for  the  few, — nay,  oftenest  of  all,  for  the 
One !  When  I  am  at  my  best,  you  know  well  that  I  am  writ 
ing  for  you  alone;  when  I  am  at  my  worst,  it  is  because  I 
can  not  rise  to  the  thought  of  you.  Even  so  my  soul  is  often 
silent  for  days,  giving  me  no  message  from  the  Infinite,  no 
hint  of  its  kinship  to  the  stars,  no  whisper  of  the  life  it  led 
before  this  life  and  the  life  it  shall  lead  after  this.  I  some 
times  think  you  are  my  soul ! 

But  help  me — help  me  always,  no  matter  how  often  and 


FAMILIAR  PHILOSOPHY  161 

how  far  I  may  fall  below  your  hope  of  me.  Still  reach  me 
your  kind  hand  which  has  power  to  save  me  from  the  last 
gulf;  still  say  those  words  of  grace  and  cheer  for  which  I 
hunger  the  more,  the  more  that  I  feel  my  unworthiness.  I 
will  read  them  over  and  over  until  I  make  myself  believe 
that  I  really  deserve  them.  Some  day,  be  sure,  I  will  utterly 
free  myself  from  my  baser  self  and  live  only  for  you.  I  will 
be  your  Sir  Galahad  and  my  strength  of  soul  shall  be  as  the 
strength  of  ten.  I  will  dedicate  every  thought  to  you  and  I 
will  write  for  you  alone — then  must  I  at  last  be  worthy  of 
your  praise  in  which  the  few  or  the  many  will  have  no  part. 
I  will  no  longer  give  out  my  truth  to  hire,  or  shame  the  Di 
vinity  in  my  breast,  or  care  only  to  move  the  laughter  of  the 
crowd.  I  will  write  a  book  only  for  you,  and  you  shall  be 
here,  as  now,  looking  over  my  shoulder  as  I  write,  and  giving 
me  fresh  inspiration  whenever  my  thought  fails.  Neither 
the  few  nor  the  many  shall  see  this  book — it  will  be  for  you 
and  me  alone.  We  shall  love  it  greatly  for  having  written  it 
together  and  because  it  will  be  forever  sacred  to  us  two.  I 
have  already  thought  of  a  title  for  this  book — we  shall  call 
it  the  "Story  of  a  Man  who  Lost  but  afterward  Found  his 
Soul." 

Turn  now  your  dear  face  to  the  light — for  my  lamp  wanes 
and  I  have  sat  far  into  the  night — that  I  may  see  the  look 
of  praise  upon  it  that  has  cheered  so  many  a  task  of  mine; 
that  I  may  renew  my  worn  spirit  in  the  eternal  peace  of  those 
calm  eyes. 

Tell  me, — oh,  tell  me  the  truth,  I  beseech  you, — are  you 
my  soul! 


Love  is  akin  to  hate — how  trite  that  is  and  how  true!  I 
sometimes  wonder  is  either  quality  to  be  found  unmixed  with 
the  other?  Can  we  have  love  without  hate  or  hate  without 
love?  The  only  glimpse  of  hatred  I  have  ever  had  that  quite 


1 62  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

appalled  me  was  from  one  who  loved  me  very  much.     Ah, 
happy  they  who  neither  love  nor  hate ! 


In  love  we  must  bleed  and  the  wounds  we  receive  are  very 
cruel.  Still  it  seems  we  can  never  have  enough  of  them,  for 
love  has  power  to  heal  the  wounds  which  it  inflicts — and  so 
we  go  on  loving  and  bleeding  to  the  end. 


There  is  one  thing  of  which  I  have  never  had  my  fill  and 
for  which  my  soul  hungers  always — love !  And  always  I  am 
promising  to  myself  that  some  day  I  shall  be  satisfied. 


When  I  was  younger  there  was  nothing  for  me  but  a  wo 
man  between  the  heavens  and  the  earth.  Now  I  perceive 
there  are  a  few  other  things.  Yet  I  am  not  old,  as  age  is 
counted. 


The  only  man  who  has  a  right  to  despair  of  the  world  is 
he  who  neither  loves  nor  is  loved. 


There  is  but  one  thing  more  interesting  than  a  woman's 
love — her  hate. 


Love  is  a  combat  and  friendship  a  duel.     Strife  is  the  law 
of  existence. 


I  should  never  be  weary  learning  of  women.     I  have  long 
since  tired  learning  of  men. 


Look  back  now  over  the  long  way  and  see  if  it  be  not 
Love  that  has  led  you  so  far ! 

Love  is  the  one  dream  that  does  not  forsake  us  as  we  de 
scend  into  the  Valley,  but  is  potent  to  bring  joy  or  misery 
to  the  last. 


FAMILIAR  PHILOSOPHY 


163 


Woman  is  the  weaker  animal,  but  she  wins  every  battle 
with  man — even  when  he  thinks  himself  the  victor. 


To  find  the  One  who  could  love  and  feel  and  understand 
— this  is  the  dream  of  some  who  yet  remain  faithful  to  their 
bonds. 


What  is  more  terrible  than  the  face  of  one  who  once  loved 
and  now  hates  you,  seen  in  a  dream ! 


epigrams  and  Hpborisms. 


HE  wise  gods  when  they  contrived  this  tragic 
comedy  of  life  which  we  have  been  such  a  weary 
time  a-playing,  mixed  up  a  little  humor  with  the 
serious  business.  He  alone  plays  his  part  well 
who  finds  the  jest — the  lath  for  the  sword,  the 
mask  of  Harlequin  for  the  frozen  face  of  Medusa.  Those 
who  have  best  solved  the  exquisite  humor  of  the  gods  are 
called  great  by  the  generalvoice  of  mankind,  and  some  dozen 
of  them  have  lived  since  the  world,  or  the  play,  began.  Unlike 
these  supremely  gifted  players,  the  vast  majority  of  men  get 
only  the  merest  inkling  of  the  gods'  merry  intent,  but  it  suf 
fices  to  save  their  lives  from  utter  misery.  Some  devote  them 
selves  to  solving  the  riddle  with  terrible  seriousness,  and  the 
laughing  god  underneath  always  escapes  them,  leaving  them 
empty-handed  and  ever  the  more  tragically  serious.  These — 
and  they  are  no  small  number — die  in  madhouses  or  religion, 
or  write  books  which  increase  the  sorrow  of  the  world :  what 
ever  their  fate,  life  remains  for  them  a  tragedy  to  the  end. 

There  came  a  Soul  before  the  Judgment  seat.  And  God 
said:  Need  there  is  none  that  We  judge  this  man,  for  he 
hath  given  all  his  days  to  Evil;  from  his  childhood  he  hath 
turned  his  back  upon  the  City  of  Peace  and  none  hath  ever 
cleaved  more  to  the  sweetness  of  sin.  Let  him  pronounce  his 
own  judgment  and  avow  that  he  hath  deserved  the  Evil 
Place. 

Then  the  Soul  cried  out :  It  is  true  I  have  merited  Hell  by 
my  iniquity,  but  this  is  not  thy  justice. 

And  God  said:  What  more  canst  thou  ask,  seeing  that 
thou  hast  wrought  judgment  against  thyself? 


EPIGRAMS  AND  APHORISMS  165 

Then  the  Soul  made  answer :  Send  me  to  Heaven  for  the 
good  I  would  have  done ! 

Laugh  at  Death  and  the  chances  are  that  he  will  give  you 
a  meaning  salute  and  pass  by.  Get  into  a  panic  and  chase 
after  Dr.  Cure-all — you  will  presently  have  a  surer  physician 
on  your  trail.  When  the  Fear  is  really  at  hand, — as  once 
occurred  to  me,  when  though  I  called  to  it,  it  went  away,— 
you  will  learn  that  it  is  no  fear  at  all.  For  it  is  much  easier 
to  die  than  to  live,  and  at  the  last  Nature  helps  us  to  play  our 
part.  Indeed  I  believe  few  of  us  know  what  true  courage 
is  until  we  come  to  die,  though  we  talk  of  it  so  loosely. 

The  fear  of  death  is  largely  a  growth  of  superstition,  and 
it  has  especially  been  fostered  by  the  Christian  faith,  with  its 
terribly  uncertain  award  in  the  Hereafter.  To  the  ancients 
it  was  utterly  unknown  in  this  dreadful  aspect,  and  it  was 
indeed  accepted  with  a  natural  firmness  and  resignation  which 
"makes  cowards  of  us  all."  But  the  last  thing  to  be  said  is, 
that  our  modern  fear  of  death  is  as  foolish  as  futile  and 
makes  a  mock  of  itself.  For  why  cling  so  desperately  to  this 
uneasy  life  which  you  are  yet  ever  wishing  an  end  of,  by  dis 
content  with  the  present  or  idle  anticipation  of  the  future? 
Do  you  remember  when  it  was  thrust  upon  you? — I  doubt 
that  you  will  be  more  conscious  when  it  is  at  last  taken  away. 


Some  one  has  defined  genius  as  "inspired  common  sense." 
I  would  beg  to  amend  this  by  dropping  "common,"  for  a 
genius  may  have  inspired  sense  at  any  age,  but  common 
sense  does  not  come  to  him  much  before  he  is  thirty- 
five.  For  about  the  seventh  lustrum  a  man  begins 
to  see  the  true  value  of  life  and  to  hold  a  serious  ac 
counting  with  himself.  The  spendthrift  desires  and  ardors  of 
passion  are  past — the  riot  and  the  rapture  of  mere  physical 
enjoyment  gone  by.  Henceforth  a  man  is  no  longer  the  fool 
of  his  senses — unless  he  be  a  fool  from  his  mother's  womb. 


1 66  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

The  universe  has  steadied  itself  in  his  gaze;  men  cease  to 
appear  unto  him  as  "trees  walking;"  the  eternal  questions, 
Wherefore?  Whither?  recur  with  a  persistence  that  will 
not  be  laid  to  sleep. 

Now  does  the  man  begin  to  set  his  affairs  in  order  and  to 
take  stock  of  his  life-experience.  What  have  the  years 
brought  him  or  taken  away? — the  gravity  of  this  thought 
strikes  him  with  a  novel  force.  He  finds,  in  truth,  that  he  is 
poorer  than  he  believed;  that  the  mountains  which  once 
seemed  to  melt  before  the  daring  of  his  spirit  are  still  there 
and  now,  alas!  impassably  high;  that  he  is  less  in  knowledge 
and  will  and  power  than  he  had  assured  himself;  that  time 
has  stripped  him  of  not  a  few  illusions  which  once  seemed  to 
him  the  very  stuff  of  life. 


While  the  fit  lasts  I  take  my  opinions  very  seriously  and 
labor  hard  to  pass  them  on  to  others ;  not,  if  I  know  myself, 
as  a  matter  of  vanity,  but  simply  that  other  persons  may  be 
benefited  by  partaking  of  the  immense  wisdom  and  knowl 
edge  which  I  do  not  care  to  monopolize.  I  am  even  eager  to 
do  battle  for  my  opinions,  and  make  myself  quite  wretched 
should  they  fail  of  a  candid  hearing.  And  it  is  likely  enough 
that  in  my  fiery,  foolish  zeal  I  may  unwittingly  cause  pain  to 
some  tender  hearts — for  which  I  now  and  at  all  times  ask 
forgiveness.  But  presently  the  wind  shifts  'round  to  another 
corner  of  the  compass,  and  I  am  a  sane,  good-humored  man 
again,  laughing  cheerfully  at  my  own  and  others'  opinions. 

Most  of  us  inherit  our  opinions.  I  inherited  mine,  and  they 
were  of  the  sort  that  are  branded  into  the  soul  by  old,  un 
happy,  far-off  memories  of  persecution  endured  for  their 
sake;  committed  as  a  sacred  heritage  of  race  and  blood;  con 
firmed  by  voices  that  plead  the  more  potently  across  the 
silence  of  death;  and  finally  stamped  by  a  course  of  training 
that  picked  them  out  in  letters  of  fire. 

Well,  I  carried  these  opinions  for  the  better  part  of  my 


EPIGRAMS  AND  APHORISMS  167 

life,  the  joyous  and  hopeful  part,  and  then  I  threw  them 
away — perhaps  to  my  loss  and  sorrow,  for  in  these  matters 
my  heart  is  often  a  rebel  against  my  head. 


Cultivate  joy  in  your  life  and  in  your  work.  For  indeed 
when  you  think  of  it,  over-seriousness  is  the  bane  of  art  as 
of  life.  Nothing  in  art  was  ever  done  well  that  was  not  a 
joy  in  its  conception.  Travail  the  artist  must,  but  in  gladness. 
So  of  the  perfect  lyrist,  we  read  that  his  song  is  a  rapture 
poured  forth  from  a  heart  that  can  never  grow  old. 

Alexander  Dumas,  the  greatest  master  of  narrative  fiction 
that  has  ever  lived,  toiled  all  day  and  every  day,  laughing 
like  Gargantua  at  the  birth  of  his  son ;  and  sometimes  weep 
ing,  too,  over  his  own  pathos.  Ah,  what  would  one  not  have 
given  for  the  privilege  of  climbing  the  stairs  stealthily  to 
watch  the  merry  giant  at  his  task !  Do  you  wonder  that  this 
rejoicing  faculty  furnished  for  many  years  the  chief  entertain 
ment  of  Europe?  I  should  not  care  much  for  a  writer  in 
capable  of  being  moved  as  Dumas  was  moved. 


Posterity  is  the  hectic  dream  of  the  weak — it  does  not  dis 
turb  the  calm  slumber  of  the  strong.  The  man  who  works 
with  his  whole  soul  in  the  present,  who  possesses  and  is  pos 
sessed  by  the  time  that  has  been  allotted  him  out  of  all  eter 
nity, — that  man  may  miss  the  prize  as  well  as  another.  But 
he  is  headed  the  right  way  to  capture  the  award  of  posterity. 


Shakespeare  erred  in  assigning  only  seven  ages  to  man — 
there  are  at  least  seventy.  Often  we  live  through  several  in 
a  single  day — it  all  depends  upon  the  kind  of  experience. 


Who  has  not  written  it  over  and  over  again  and  then  torn 
it  up  in  despair  and  still  renewed  the  effort  with  prayers  and 
tears, — he  knows  you  not,  ye  Heavenly  Powers ! 


1 68  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

Remember  that  the  true  struggle  of  life  is  not  to  achieve 
what  the  world  calls  success,  but  to  hold  that  Essential  Self 
inviolate  which  was  given  you  to  mark  your  identity  from  all 
other  souls.  Against  this  precious  possession — this  Veriest 
You — all  winds  blow,  all  storms  rage,  all  malign  powers 
contend.  As  you  hold  to  this  or  suffer  it  to  be  marred  or 
taken  from  you,  so  shall  be  your  victory  or  defeat. 


O  Memory !  thou  leadest  me  back  over  the  years  and  show- 
est  me  many  a  place  where  once  I  would  have  lingered  for 
ever,  but  now  thou  canst  not  show  me  one  of  all  Where  I 
would  tarry  again;  my  Soul  knoweth  that  not  a  single  step 
can  be  retraced  and  that  she  is  of  the  Infinite  to  be. 


Why  do  we  write  for  the  world  the  things  we  would  not 
say  to  the  individual  ?  Why  do  we  send  on  every  wandering 
wind  the  secrets  we  would  not  whisper  in  the  ear  of  our 
chosen  friend? 


Men  are  always  talking  about  truth,  but  there  is  really  so 
little  of  it  in  common  use  that  it  might  be  classed  with  ra 
dium.  Perhaps  we  should  not  know  it  if  we  saw  it,  for  our 
experience  deals  almost  wholly  with  substitutes. 


In  making  up  the  character  of  God,  the  old  theologians 
failed  to  mention  that  He  is  of  an  infinite  cheerfulness.  The 
omission  has  cost  the  world  much  tribulation. 


The  only  man  that  ever  lived  who  understood  and  par 
doned  sin  was  Christ.  And  for  this  men  have  made  him  God. 


If  you  seek  to  command  by  fear,  yours  will  be  the  barren 
service  that  is  given  without  the  loyalty  of  the  heart. 


EPIGRAMS  AND  APHORISMS  169 

Beginning  as  children,  we  walk  away  from  God,  and  as 
old  men  we  strive  to  totter  back  again. 


Grieve  not  that  you  desire  always  and  vainly — life  without 
desire  is  very  near  unto  death. 

Nature  has  no  sorrows — perhaps  that  is  why  she  is  immor 
tal. 

The  better  is  enemy  of  the  good,  said  William  Morris. 
Do  your  stint  to-day  and  let  it  go  for  what  it  is  worth.  All 
days  are  ranked  equal  in  God's  fair  time.  You  can  not  steal 
from  to-day  to  give  unto  to-morrow,  nor  play  at  loaded  dice 
with  the  fates. 


I  have  come  nearly  to  forty  year,  and  have  bothered  my 
head  much  with  books,  yet  I  am  as  ignorant  of  many  simple 
things  as  when  a  child.  Still  we  are  ready  to  fight  and  die  for 
beliefs  or  opinions  picked  up  at  random  in  the  space  of  a 
few  years.  Truly  spoke  the  Preacher,  all  is  vanity ! 


I  am  not  the  man  I  was  ten  years  ago.  I  should  not  know 
the  boy  I  was  were  I  to  meet  him  in  the  street.  Time  is  ever 
stealing  our  outworn  wardrobes  of  the  flesh  and  spirit. 


Life  is  never  simple  to  the  divining  spirit — every  mo 
ment  of  the  common  day  is  charged  with  mystery  and  revela 
tion. 


To  have  nothing  to  say  and  to  say  it  at  all  hazards,  passes 
for  much  that  is  called  achievement  in  literature. 

A  man  may  boast  that  he  can  judge  himself  as  harshly  as 
another,  but  he  makes  no  mistake  in  passing  sentence. 


i7o  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

It  is  easier  to  make  enemies  than  friends,  but  fail  not  to 
remember  that  an  effort  is  required  in  either  case. 

When  I  come  to  die  I  know  my  keenest  regret  will  be  that 
I  suffered  myself  to  be  annoyed  by  a  lot  of  small  people  and 
picayune  worries,  wasting  God's  good  time  with  both. 


The  strongest  writer  smiles  at  the  praise  of  his  strength- 
he  alone  knows  how  weak  he  can  be. 


The  very  meanest  man  I  know  believes  for  sure  that  God 
is  made  in  his  particular  image  and  likeness. 


The  mystery  of  the  Hereafter  is  very  great  indeed,  but  we 
may  take  courage  in  reflecting  that  we  have  left  some  of  it 
behind  us. 


The  wounds  of  self  bleed  always  and  will  not  be  forgiven. 


I  need  not  write  to  my  dear  friend,  for  my  heart  talks  to 
him  every  day  over  the  miles.  In  this  way,  too,  I  tell  him 
only  the  things  I  wish  to  tell  him  and  so  have  nothing  to 
change  or  recall  after  the  letter  is  sealed  and  sent.  I  was  not 
always  so  wise. 


Among  persons  whose  lives  touch  at  every  point,  there  is 
often  no  communion  of  the  soul  for  months  and  years.  Were 
we  to  live  only  by  the  active  life  of  the  soul,  our  term  would 
be  as  brief  as  that  of  the  ephemera. 


Men  are  damned  not  for  what  they  believe  but  for  what 
they  make-believe. 


Almost  every  friendship  holds  a  degree  of  disappointment, 


EPIGRAMS  AND  APHORISMS  171 

yet  friendship  is  still  the  best  thing  in  the  world  and  the  con 
stant  dream  of  the  finer  souls. 


Sane  persons  will  not  expect  to  find  absolute  perfection  in 
Heaven — there  as  here  the  charm  of  a  little  discontent,  the 
satisfaction  of  turning  up  a  small  grievance,  will  not  be  de 
nied  us. 


The  vice  of  the  Pharisee  is  in  believing  that  he  is  not  like 
unto  other  men.  The  virtue  of  a  man  who  knows  himself  a 
sinner  is  in  believing  that  other  men  are  not  like  unto  himself. 


That  which  was  lately  power  is  now  impotence,  but  wait 
it  will  soon  be  power  again. 


It  is  something  to  have  lived  for  the  things  of  the  mind, 
even  though  we  have  missed  what  the  world  calls  wealth  or 
success — those  at  least  shall  not  be  taken  from  us. 


Revise  and  revise  and  revise — the  best  thought  will  still 
come  after  the  printer  has  snatched  away  the  copy. 


Balzac  laid  the  world  under  the  greatest  obligation  of  any 
modern  man  of  letters  and  was  driven  into  an  untimely  grave 
by  the  spectre  of  debt.  The  highest  service  is  always  martyr 
dom. 


A  learned  young  German  philosopher,  Dr.  Otto  Weinin- 
ger,  pronounced  the  most  acute  mind  since  Kant,  recently 
solved  the  great  problem  of  sex  and  then  killed  himself. 
What  else  was  there  for  him  to  do  ? 


Every  little  while  it  is  announced  that  some  scientist  has 
pinned  down  the  secret  of  life,  but  always  the  learned  man 


172  PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 

has  fooled  himself.   God  will  not  be  put  into  a  chemical  for 
mula. 


Thou  art  eager  to  be  in  company  and  delightest  in  the 
conversation  of  thy  friends,  yet  thou  hast  a  better  friend 
than  any  of  these  who  constantly  solicits  thee  and  whom  thou 
wilt  seldom  hear — thy  soul! 


Song  of  the  Rain. 


ONG  time  I  lay  in  my  bed  listening  to  the  rain. 

In  the  hushed  quiet  of  night,  in  the  solemn 
darkness,  my  heart  ceased  its  beatings  to  listen. 
There  was  naught  in  the  world  but  my  heart 
and  the  rain. 

My  soul  awoke  at  the  song  of  the  rain,  drenching  through 
the  trees,  pattering  on  the  roof,  filling  my  chamber  with  cool 
ness  and  the  sense  of  a  mystic  presence.  My  soul  awoke  and 
deemed  that  it  was  the  pause  before  the  End. 

Long  I  lay  still  in  the  darkness,  hearing  the  song  of  the 
rain;  feeling  upon  me  and  throughout  me  the  balm  and 
blessing  of  the  rain ;  telling  myself  that  if  this  were  the  End, 
it  could  not  better  be.  My  soul  was  all  attention,  eager  to 
catch  the  word  of  its  fate,  my  heart  ceased  its  throbbing  to 
listen — there  was  naught  in  the  world  but  the  rain  and  my 
heart. 

What  was  the  burden  of  the  song  of  the  rain  that  I  heard 
as  I  lay  still  in  my  bed,  wrapt  in  the  solemn  darkness,  feel 
ing  as  I  shall  feel  in  the  pause  before  the  End?  What  was 
the  burden  of  the  song  of  the  rain  which  my  soul  awoke  to 
hear  and  for  which  my  heart  stopped  its  beating  ? 

Peace  was  the  burden  of  the  song  of  the  rain  that  I  heard 
in  the  deep  of  night  when  my  soul  thrilled  like  a  wind-harp 
in  the  breath  of  God.  Peace  was  the  burden  of  the  song  of 
the  rain. 

Now  have  I  put  away  all  strife  and  anger  and  unrest  since 
there  came  this  wondrous  message  of  the  rain,  the  night  and 
the  silence:  Now  do  I  bear  a  quiet  heart  since  my  soul 
trembled  like  a  wind-harp  in  the  breath  of  God. 

Peace  for  all  the  days  that  yet  are  mine  when  often  I  shall 


PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS 


lie  awake  in  the  night  silence,  listening  to  the  song  of  the 
rain. 

Peace  forevermore  when  my  soul  shall  be  drawn  into  the 
breath  of  God  and  my  body  shall  be  mingled  at  last  with  the 
balm  and  blessing  of  the  rain. 

Peace  forevermore ! 

Finis. 


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